


Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by ras_elased



Category: SGA - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-24
Updated: 2008-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ras_elased/pseuds/ras_elased
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being kicked out of the Air Force, John puts his covert military skills to use as a professional thief. John's final job before he retires is to steal Rodney's research, but when Rodney's life is threatened by the same man who hired John, John must make a decision between himself and the man he's falling for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

 

**Wolf in Sheep's Clothing**

____spacer____

Above coverart is the cropped, worksafe version of my original **NWS** coverart,   
which you can view [here.](http://www.geocities.com/ras.elased_star/coverartoriginal.jpg)

**Soundtrack**

[ ](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=1HMKDS9V)

Download the complete soundtrack zip file at  
[MegaUpload](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=1HMKDS9V). If this site   
doesn't work for you, I'd be happy to upload it to the file sharing site of your   
choice. Simply leave me a comment in the [LJ post](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/11860.html) for this fic.

 

**Title**: Wolf in Sheep's Clothing  
**Team**: Romance  
**Prompt**: Wolf in Sheep's Clothing (obviously *g*)  
**Pairing(s):** McKay/Sheppard, Sam/Jack  
**Rating**: NC-17  
**Warnings**: Mention of Chaya *cringe!* and some pretty graphic medical   
descriptions.  
**Summary**: After being kicked out of the Air Force, John puts his covert   
military skills to use as a professional thief. John's final job before he   
retires is to steal Rodney's research, but when Rodney's life is threatened by   
the same man who hired John, John must make a decision between himself and the   
man he's falling for.  
**Notes and Disclaimer**:   
This was heavily inspired by the movies The Saint and French Kiss, so if you're   
familiar with either of those movies you should be able to pick out their   
influence, but the rest of it came from my own twisted imagination. Also, I'd   
like to say that the opinions of the characters do not necessarily reflect the   
opinions of the Author (I really love France, and would like to go there   
someday) and that any and all references to science, medicine, or military   
activity found in this story do not necessarily reflect reality. At all.**  
Acknowledgements**:   
Huge, colossal thanks to my beta beadattitude for helping me out at literally   
the last minute. Thank you, hon, for putting up with me and for making this   
story infinitely better. To melagan, for endless cheerleader duties and boosting   
my ego when I started whining. And finally, to Starbuck's Frappuccino, without   
which this fic would not have been possible.

~~~

John woke up to the feeling   
of soft silk sheets against his bare skin. He glanced across the bed at Chaya,   
auburn hair falling artfully over her slim shoulders, face lax in a deep sleep.   
Not that John could blame her, he'd done his best to tire her out.

John quickly read the clock   
behind her head, and once again thanked his military training for his ability to   
wake on command. He had about an hour before their next stop, which was more   
time than he needed. The curtains were drawn, but John could see well enough to   
locate his clothes. Slipping quietly from under the expensive blankets, John   
pulled on his suit, trying in vain to smooth out the wrinkles it had collected   
on the floor. With a fleeting glance in the mirror he made sure his wig was   
still secure and didn't need any adjusting. The shaggy, dirty blond locks seemed   
more fitting for a beach bum than a rich playboy, but the disguise had worked,   
so John wasn't complaining. He quickly ran his fingers through the long bangs,   
trying to make the messiness look more purposeful, and less like his hair had   
been completely distorted in sleep.

Stealthily picking through   
Chaya's clothes on the floor, John located her beaded handbag and withdrew her   
security pass and key. Then he silently crept from the room, not even bothering   
to give Chaya a second glance.

Once in the hall he blinked   
against the bright Indian sunlight, watching the Himalayas  
zoom by on the horizon. Chaya had decided to take a luxury train on a   
'spiritual tour' through the country, though John suspected her spiritual   
journey was somewhat hampered by the exorbitant amounts of money in her trust   
fund. He knew the real reason for the trip was to deliver a stolen microchip to   
her father's up and coming software company based in   
India. Still, Chaya's visit to the Taj Mahal   
provided the perfect backdrop for her to meet 'James McMillian,' a fellow   
'spiritual tourist' disillusioned with his wealth and pursuit of materialistic   
desires.

Yeah, right.

If John pulled this off,   
then by the time he got home he'd be eight million dollars richer. Maybe he'd   
buy that new pool table he'd had his eye on. Not that he ever got a chance to   
play, but once he retired he'd have more free time. Still, there was the little   
problem that pool was more fun when you had someone to compete against, and,   
well, John's job didn't exactly lend itself to companionship.

He'd been a thief for four   
years now, traveling to just about every continent and never staying in one   
place for too long. His specialty was corporate espionage, and he wasn't cheap.   
He still wasn't quite sure how it happened. Like most things in John's life, the   
opportunity had just fallen into his lap, passed on by an old contact from his   
days with Holland. John knew the fact that he was still hurting from Holland's   
death had a lot to do with the fact that he'd taken that first job, but he found   
it paid well and it kept John busy, and as long as nobody got hurt, he didn't   
see the harm in stealing a few prototypes from companies that had more money   
than they knew what to do with, anyway.

_Like this microchip_,   
he reminded himself. He wasn't quite sure what it did that made it so cutting   
edge, but John had learned not to ask too many questions. The company that had   
designed it wanted it back, so they hired John. That was all he needed to know.

He strolled down the   
hallway, swaying gently with the motion of the train as it rumbled down the   
tracks. He made his way through a few more cars until he reached the secure   
luggage car. He gave a charming smile to the guard stationed at the door. "Hey,   
Chuck," he greeted warmly.

"Mr. McMillian," Chuck   
replied. "What can I do for you, sir?"

With a put upon sigh, John   
said, "Chaya can't find her favorite diamond earrings, and she was hoping to   
wear them for luck when we visit the shrine this afternoon. She wanted me to   
check her box and see if they're in there."

Chuck shook his head. "I'm   
sorry, sir. You know only the holder of the security box is allowed access."

"Chuck, c'mon," John   
wheedled with a sheepish grin. "You know how she gets. Look, I've got the pass   
card and everything," he added, waving the plastic security pass in Chuck's   
face.

Chuck still looked   
hesitant, but when John finally pulled the pouty eyes from his arsenal, Chuck   
reluctantly gave in. "Fine. But don't tell anyone I let you in."

John resisted the urge to   
bounce on his toes in victory. "My lips are sealed," he replied smoothly.

Chuck took John's security   
pass and swiped the door open, and John couldn't help the giddy smile as he   
stepped inside. As soon as the door hissed closed behind him, he took in the   
drab grey walls lined with square, numbered lockers. He just had to get the   
microchip out of Chaya's box and then head back to her cabin like he was never   
gone. He'd ditch her at the next stop, and with any luck he'd be in Bombay by   
the time she figured out what had happened.

Smirking, he made a beeline   
for box 47  
and put Chaya's key in the lock. _This is too easy_, he thought. As   
soon as he opened the hinged door to the locker, though, he knew he'd just   
jinxed himself. Inside the door there was a numbered keypad, and John groaned   
when he realized he didn't have a clue what her pass code would be. Still, it   
was too late to turn back now. He tried to remember the information from the   
profile his client had sent. He flipped through various numbers in his mind: her   
birthday, her address, her phone number…Biting his lip, John punched in   
25,000,000. With a hiss, the sealed chamber popped open, and John rolled his   
eyes. _Spiritualist my ass_, he thought. Of course her pass code would be   
the amount of her trust fund.

John reached into the   
chamber and felt around until his fingers landed on a small, smooth case about   
the size of a deck of cards. When he opened it, there was a chip the size of a   
penny nestled snugly in the foam, and John snagged it and slipped it into the   
inside pocket of his jacket. Then he put the empty case back into the locker and   
closed the doors. That's when the alarm went off.

"Oh, you've got to be   
kidding me!" he grumbled at the ceiling. He didn't have time to wonder what   
unknown security system he'd tripped, because the next thing he knew, Chuck was   
at the door, eyeing John suspiciously.

"Mr. McMillian? What are   
you—"

John held up his hands,   
deciding to play innocent. "Look, I don't know what happened. The damn thing   
just went off." He took a few casual steps towards Chuck, hoping he hadn't   
misjudged his trusting nature. The guy had a gun, after all.

Chuck narrowed his eyes and   
took a step back. "Of course, sir. But I still need to call it in."

John nodded   
understandingly. "Sure. Do your thing." Chuck reached for his radio, but before   
he could click the button John landed a sucker punch to his face. John took   
advantage of the shocked recoil to reach for Chuck's weapon and brought the butt   
of the gun down on the back of Chuck's skull. He watched Chuck crumple into an   
unconscious heap on the floor, then grimaced in sympathy. "Sorry," he muttered   
as he bolted out the door.

John made it through a few   
cars before he spotted the security guards up ahead. John didn't have time to   
think. He just ducked inside the first unlocked door he could find. He listened   
as the guards ran past the door, then turned to meet the stunned faces of two   
college boys who looked like they were on vacation for Spring Break. Quickly,   
John pasted on a self-deprecating smile and made an offhanded motion over his   
shoulder. "Relationship issues," he muttered. 

The shorter, blond one   
snorted. "Whose wife did you sleep with?" he asked in a deep, sardonic voice,   
earning him a sharp elbow from the other.

"Dean!" the taller one   
scolded, rolling his eyes. He then turned to John and said politely, "You're   
welcome to stay here until it blows over." He offered a friendly smile and   
brushed a few long brown locks back from his forehead. He seemed sweet. Too bad   
John didn't really go for sweet.

"Unfortunately, I don't   
think I have that long," John replied, listening through the door as the guards   
made their way back, knocking on every door they passed. He crossed to the   
window and slid it open, much to the mutual shock of the compartment's other   
occupants.

John was already scrambling   
to grab at the small overhanging ledges above the window when he felt hands   
boosting him up, not to mention a casual grope to his ass. John blinked in   
surprise just in time to catch the blond one's smirk and wink, and John couldn't   
help but smile as another boost-and-grope put him in range to grab the ledge.   
The wind roared in his ears as he hauled himself onto the roof of the passenger   
car, but just before the window slid closed he was pretty sure he heard the   
guards bust into the compartment below.

John clung to the slick,   
sun-warmed metal and took a deep breath. Okay, so, this wasn't exactly how he'd   
planned to roll into the next stop. But if John was being honest with himself,   
he managed to get himself into situations like this more often than he liked to   
admit, so this was pretty standard. And he was relatively sure the guards   
wouldn't think to look for him here. Unless they'd seen the open window a moment   
ago and put two and two together, in which case…

John banged his head once   
against the metal roof, because he just wasn't that lucky. Hesitantly, he looked   
up. He couldn't say he was surprised to find a guard climbing onto the roof of   
the car in front of him. Sometimes he wondered how he got himself into these   
messes.

John lurched to his feet,   
slipping a little on the slick surface as the wind buffeted his frame. The   
jacket whipped against his chest, and he quickly took off in the opposite   
direction of the advancing guard.

When he reached the gap   
between cars, he made a running leap. His feet skidded out from under him on the   
landing, and for one terrifying second he felt like his body was made of Teflon   
and he would slide right off. He lunged towards the ledge as he slipped towards   
the brink. He grabbed hold just as he felt his body swing over the edge. He   
dangled precariously for a moment, arms shaking under the strain, before he was   
able to haul himself back up with a strangled yell. He couldn't even take a   
moment to calm his breathing, because there were more guards now, and they were   
still advancing.

The good news was they   
clearly wanted him alive or they would have shot him by now. The bad news was   
there were only so many cars on this train, and eventually he'd have no where   
left to run. 

Just as John was   
desperately searching for a Plan C, he spotted a group of power lines ahead,   
right over the train. That gave him an idea.

He stood up and hurriedly   
pulled off his jacket, then held it up near the edge of the train. "Hey!" he   
shouted into the wind. "I've got the chip! Stop right there, or I drop it!"

The guards paused long   
enough to exchange glances, and that was all John needed. The power lines passed   
right over the guards' heads and a second later John jumped up, wrapping his   
jacket over the line. He slid down the cable like it was a zip line, feeling   
wind and bullets whiz by his head when the guards decided it was time to start   
shooting. But soon the staccato rhythm of gunfire was fading into the distance   
as the guards were pulled out of range, and all John had to do was drop lightly   
to the ground. He threw a jaunty wave at the diminishing figures of the guards   
fading into the distance.

Just outside the next town,   
he removed his wig and paid a villager on a bicycle one hundred dollars to   
exchange clothes with him. Then he threw in an extra hundred for the bike. Once   
in town, he strolled innocently right past the guards and a somewhat distraught   
looking Chaya at the train station, then ducked down a side street and smiled as   
a blue and orange sign came into view. "God bless FedEx," he said, palming the   
microchip in his pocket.

~~~

Three days and a lot of   
continent hopping later, John finally felt like his trail was sufficiently   
scrambled and he could return home to his stylish but small apartment in San   
Francisco. As soon as John stepped over the threshold of his apartment, he   
kicked the door shut and grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge. It was cheap crap,   
but he'd had worse overseas. He toasted Johnny Cash on his wall, wondering   
briefly if he should get a couple of fish or something, just so he'd have   
something to greet besides a poster. He settled onto the couch and propped his   
feet up on the coffee table, then pulled out his souped-up cell phone. The thing   
was light years ahead of anything that was currently on the market, more like a   
miniature wireless computer. That was one of the perks about stealing government   
technology: they always had the best toys.

There were two encrypted   
messages in his inbox. He decoded the first one from his contact. "Lion to Wolf:   
Have received package. Please confirm transfer of funds." He took a long drink   
of his beer and opened one connection to his contact, and one to his Swiss bank   
in Geneva, smiling as he noted the number: $46,095,321. A full eight million   
more than what he had this morning. One more job, and John would have   
enough—enough to retire to   
Maui, maybe open a little surf   
shop, and still have money for Holland's family to live comfortably for the rest   
of their lives. John anonymously transferred one million to the bank account of   
Holland's widow, Emma. She never knew where the money came from, but John was   
sure she suspected. Luckily, he was able to track her bank records, so at least   
he knew she wasn't too proud to put it to good use.

John typed into the message   
window for his contact, "Lion: Funds received. Pleasure doing business with   
you," and clicked send. While the encryption process loaded, he turned his   
attention to the second message.

"Snake to Wolf: Have job   
proposition. File details attached. Contact if interested." John opened the file   
and skimmed it once. Intrigued, he read the dossier again, this time more   
thoroughly. He took another swig of his beer, then clicked reply.

"Wolf to Snake: Let's talk   
price."

~~~

"Oh, you have _got_ to   
be kidding me! First Zelenka, now you! Et tu, Sam?" Rodney shouted into his cell   
phone. "I'm about to give a keynote lecture on the application of quantum   
gravity to wormhole physics that half the people in this room are too stupid to   
understand, and you're telling me this now?"

"Rodney, it's a good job,"   
Sam protested. "They've offered me my own department, tons of funding – there's   
no way I could say no!"

"Yes, yes there is! It's a   
very simple, one-syllable word. I'm sure even you could manage it!"

"Rodney," she groaned,   
sounding frustrated. Why did _she_ sound frustrated? It was Rodney who had   
to deal with the fact that his last remaining research partner was abandoning   
him. How the hell did a guest lecture at the University of

Paris translate into hunting for   
real estate and a _new job_?

"Sam, it's France." Rodney   
said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, mostly because it did. "How   
many groundbreaking discoveries in wormhole physics have been made in __

France?"

"Well maybe I'll be the   
first," Sam bit out through clenched teeth.

Rodney scowled into the   
phone. "Is this a professional jealousy thing? Because I realize my work   
overshadows yours, but really, your work is somewhat crucial to the success of   
my research. You're guaranteed at least a footnote in the annals of scientific   
history, but not if you don't come back and help me complete my project!"

Sam sighed, loud and   
grating. "Look, Rodney, I'm sorry. I really am, but I can't do this with you   
right now. If you really want to talk, call me back when you can say you're   
happy for me."

"Sam, don't be stupid!   
You're ruining your career!" There was a click as the line went dead. "Sam?   
Sam!" Cursing, Rodney clicked his cell phone shut.

"Dr. McKay?" came a nasally   
voice at Rodney's back.

Rodney instantly whirled on   
whichever idiot didn't have enough spare brain cells to tell Rodney was _angry_,   
and therefore should be left alone, if said idiot preferred his vacuous head   
still attached to his shoulders. "WHAT?" he snapped.

~~~

John blinked for a second   
at Rodney's outburst, momentarily struck dumb by fiery blue eyes. The   
surveillance photos didn't really do that expression justice. The dossier he'd   
been sent on McKay had warned him Rodney was a "prickly, arrogant,   
self-aggrandizing bastard" and John was beginning to think the description   
hadn't been exaggerated. He felt even more certain he'd taken the right approach   
to get close to McKay, posing as a geeky, starry-eyed fan of Rodney's work. He'd   
donned a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, a bow tie, and a tweed jacket. Slicked   
back, side-parted hair, brown loafers, and a slightly stooped posture completed   
the look.

John flashed an eager grin,   
and said in a breathless rush, "Dr. McKay, my name is Jimmy Parker. I write for   
the Science section of the New York Times. I was wondering if I could have a   
moment of your time before the presentation?" He took a notepad and pen from his   
inside jacket pocket. "I'm a big fan of your work, and I'd love a chance to   
write an article on the greatest scientific mind of our generation."

McKay visibly preened for a   
split second, then gave John a cursory once over. If the acid-tinged glare was   
any indication, it seemed like Rodney wasn't particularly impressed with what he   
saw. That look would have had a lesser man withering. "It would be a waste of my   
valuable time," he surmised. "Clearly, if you're merely writing about science   
instead of actually doing it, you don't have enough functioning brain cells to   
even be a lab tech. My six-year-old niece would understand more about my   
research than some brown-noser with a _journalism_ degree." Shoving his way   
past John, McKay continued disparagingly, "Try Kavanaugh. His research is more   
on your level."

John blinked, then stood   
stock still for a full ten seconds before he snapped his gaping mouth shut.   
"Okay, that could've gone better," he muttered to himself.

~~~

The last time John had   
underestimated a target, he'd ended up fifteen million dollars poorer,   
handcuffed to the brass bedpost of a Columbian drug lord with the worst case of   
blue balls of his _life_. Needless to say, he'd made it a point never to   
underestimate anyone ever again.

John didn't stick around   
for McKay's lecture. After crashing and burning on his first attempt, he drove   
straight to Rodney's apartment, deciding he needed more intel on McKay than what   
could be found in the profile his contact had provided. Luckily, picking McKay's   
lock was child's play. As soon as John stepped into Rodney's apartment, he took   
one look at the mess and said, "Damn, McKay. Maybe I should pose as your   
housekeeper."

The next thing he knew he   
was accosted by a grey and black striped hissing ball of fur. Okay, so   
apparently McKay owned a cat, and it seemed to share his winning personality.   
Thinking fast, tiny claws sharp on his heels, John made a grab for the bag of   
treats sitting by the door. The sight of food proved to be a satisfying   
distraction, and the cat's temper instantly cooled. John wondered idly if   
shoving a candy bar at McKay would have the same effect. Looking up from his new   
best friend winding its way between his legs, John took in the rest of the   
apartment.

The place looked like McKay   
hadn't bothered to clean it in months. There were piles of clothes blanketing   
the floor, junk food wrappers everywhere but the trash can, and unwashed coffee   
mugs precariously stacked near the sink. Nearly every available surface was   
covered with hastily scribbled notes on napkins, receipts, or whatever else was   
on hand when inspiration struck. John read a few. Some were reminders for things   
to do, like "buy milk" or "call Zelenka," but most were brief strings of   
mathematical calculations. He recognized some of the math, though most of it was   
too complex even for John to understand. John wondered if this guy's life was as   
much of a mess as his apartment. Given that McKay's life seemed to revolve   
around his work, John assumed that was a yes.

Making his way to the   
bedroom, John noticed that most of the pictures on the walls were of McKay   
holding various plaques or receiving awards. A few were of his cat. But it was   
the one on the nightstand that caught John's eye. Curious, he picked it up to   
give it a closer look. It was a picture of McKay, a gorgeous blonde woman, and a   
man with fuzzy, wild hair and glasses. John recognized them from the dossier.   
They were all wearing lab coats and toasting with champagne, and the smile on   
McKay's face gave him pause. It was different somehow from the smug,   
self-satisfied grin of all the other pictures, and John found himself staring at   
it for several seconds longer than he'd intended, drawn in like gravity. John   
snapped himself back to the task at hand and set the picture back on the   
nightstand, then opened up the drawer below it. He found a few more snack cake   
wrappers, a nearly empty bottle of lube and a box of tissues, and John quickly   
shut the drawer with a snort. Apparently, McKay didn't entertain much company   
besides his right hand.

John picked his way through   
the mass of dirty laundry on the floor. Several of McKay's t-shirts were   
emblazoned with dry, sarcastic slogans that made John smile. Maybe McKay had a   
sense of humor after all. He found McKay's laptop next to a pile of classical   
CDs. With a smile, John cleared a spot on McKay's unmade bed and pulled the   
computer into his lap. The cat nuzzled up against John's side as the computer   
pinged to life, and John's smile widened. "Bingo."

Given the amount of work   
McKay seemed to take home with him, John was sure he must keep at least parts of   
his research on his home computer. After browsing through some of the files,   
John's good mood began to dissipate. Nearly every file on McKay's computer was   
given uninformative labels like "Why Lab 17 is full of idiots" and "Sam, do not   
open this!" so that John had no way of telling which files were pertinent and   
which files were superfluous. To make it that much more difficult, McKay was   
apparently paranoid and had encrypted _all_ of his files. Hell, even the   
folder labeled "gay porn" was encrypted, and didn't that kind of defeat the   
purpose of encrypting the file to hide its contents? John had a program he could   
upload from his cell phone that could decrypt all of McKay's files one by one,   
but it would take John time to access and sort through everything. Time that   
John didn't have, because at that moment he heard the rattling of keys at the   
door. 

"Shit!" John hastily shut   
down the computer and scrambled under the bed, frantically flinging aside dirty   
underwear to make room. By the time John was safely surrounded by scraps of   
paper and dust bunnies, he could easily make out McKay's voice blaring through   
the apartment.

~~~

"No, no, no! This is all   
your fault, and now I of course have to fix the disaster you've created." As   
soon as Rodney walked in the door, he grabbed the bag of treats and braced   
himself for Newton's attack. The damn cat was never civil unless food was   
involved. When Newton lazily strolled into the hallway and gave Rodney a   
dismissive once over, Rodney blinked and narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Rodney, I fail to see how   
this constitutes a disaster," Elizabeth sighed through the phone, sounding   
exasperated. Rodney briefly tore his attention from wondering why the cat wasn't   
attempting to tear out his Achilles tendons and tried to focus on the greater   
mystery of why his boss seemed determined to let the university's second most   
brilliant brain defect to join the cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

"You let the French take   
her,   
Elizabeth! How could you do   
that?"

And now Elizabeth seemed a   
shade past exasperated. "She had a good reason, Rodney. She was—"

"I don't care, there is no   
reason good enough for her to throw her life away when we're on the verge of a   
major breakthrough! And for what? Pretentious wine and designer shoes?" he   
shouted, barreling into the bedroom and assaulting the contents of his closet.   
Where was his damn suitcase, anyway?

"She's made her choice,   
Rodney. I'm not going to pretend I'm happy with the outcome, but maybe you   
should just—"

Rodney made a frustrated   
noise and flung his suitcase onto the bed where it landed with a heavy thump. He   
didn't even bother to look at what he was packing, madly grabbing anything that   
was halfway clean and tossing it haphazardly into the bag. "Look, Elizabeth,   
either you give me the time off or not, but either way I'm going to be on that   
plane."

Rodney had learned to read   
Elizabeth's pauses, and this one clearly said, 'You're infuriatingly insane and   
I would like nothing better right now than to fire you, but then I'd have no   
science department and no chance of ever posting a gold plaque above the   
university entrance that says "Home of Nobel Prize Winner Dr. Rodney McKay."' Or   
possibly Rodney was just projecting. With a drawn out sigh, Elizabeth finally   
said, "When does your flight leave?"

Rodney paused long enough   
in his whirlwind of packing to glance at his watch. "In about four and a half   
hours."

Another pause, which meant,   
'Good luck, and I'll miss you every day that you're gone.' Then she said,   
"Rodney, just…try not to piss anyone off while you're over there, okay? If you   
believe the stereotypes, the French are almost as rude as you, and they don't   
take kindly to Americans."

"Well then it's a good   
thing I'm Canadian!" he scoffed, then unceremoniously hung up on her. He hastily   
finished packing, tossing in a few necessities like his Epipen, passport, and   
the complete second season of Doctor Who. And with a force of will that only Dr.   
Rodney McKay could pull off, he wrenched the zipper closed with enough vehemence   
to fuse the metal teeth together.

~~~

There was a pause after the   
furious sound of the zipper closing, and John held his breath. He watched   
Rodney's feet stop their frenzied pacing at the foot of the bed, and then there   
was an inelegant thud as Rodney seemed to collapse onto the mattress. "Oh, don't   
look at me like that."

John stayed silent and   
motionless as he watched four tiny, gray, furry feet walk into the room. There   
was a long pause in which John pictured Rodney and the cat having a staring   
contest of doom, and then heard a surprising sigh of defeat as he watched those   
four little feet get hoisted into the air, out of sight.

"Look, I'm…I'm sorry,   
okay?" Rodney began, voice alarmingly quiet. "I know I just got back from San   
Francisco, and I haven't been home all that much recently, but…"

There was a long pause in   
which John felt frozen in shock. _Holy shit_, he thought. _Is Rodney   
McKay actually apologizing? To a CAT?_

"Look, it has to be done,"   
Rodney continued in a tone startlingly familiar to the tone John's father had   
used in every single 'You'll thank me when you're older' discussion. "And I'll   
be back soon, and everything will be fine then, so you won't have to be alone   
anymore." Rodney's voice trailed off, and in the moments of silence that   
followed, John pictured the demonic ball of fur curled in Rodney's arms and   
wondered if he was simply imagining the quiet sound of purring.

After a few moments, Rodney   
silently started gathering what John assumed to be materials for the cat, like   
food and toys, then mumbled something to the cat about staying with the girl   
down the hall. When John heard the apartment door click shut behind Rodney, he   
waited a good three minutes before crawling out from under the bed. Dusting   
himself off, he tried to wrap his brain around what he'd just witnessed.

Apparently, McKay was not   
as cold and closed off as his demeanor would imply. In fact, if John was reading   
him right, he seemed almost starved for affection and companionship. John   
glanced at the picture of the scientist friends on the nightstand, then thought   
back to his less than enthusiastic reception as the reporter. Now that he   
considered it, it made perfect sense. Rodney was a busy man. He wouldn't waste   
his time socializing with anyone he didn't consider worthy of his valuable time   
and expertise. He needed someone to challenge him, not suck up to him. He needed   
someone to drive him a little crazy and feed that sharp wit, someone to keep him   
on his toes.

Maybe the route John needed   
to take was closer to the heart than the head. He usually saved the romantic   
seduction routine for women, even though his personal tastes didn't swing that   
way. Women just seemed more likely to fall for that sort of thing than men. But   
what John had learned about Rodney indicated that this was the course to take   
with him, though John was man enough to admit that maybe those big blue eyes had   
influenced his decision somewhat.

With a smirk, John made his   
escape out the window and scaled the fire escape, already forming a plan in his   
head. The first thing he needed was a guitar.

~~~

Rodney was not a man known   
to waste time. He usually worked on no fewer than five projects at once, with a   
few simulations running in the background. So while the rest of the lemmings   
were muddling through the aisles and stowing their luggage and searching for   
their seats with befuddled expressions, Rodney already had his laptop up and   
running. He was taking advantage of the lag time between boarding the plane and   
take off to finally get a look at the calculations that Zelenka had sent him   
months ago, after abandoning him for Russia. He was so absorbed in his work that   
he didn't notice the man standing next to him until he'd apparently tried to get   
Rodney's attention for the second or third time. "What?" he asked.

"I said, I think that's my   
seat," the man repeated. He was tall and lean, with a ridiculous shock of dark   
hair and eyes that seemed to be laughing at Rodney a little, and not bothering   
to hide it. "Ten A?" the guy said, showing Rodney his boarding pass as   
proof.

Rodney glared back, noting   
the man's guitar case, Birkenstocks, and hemp necklace. He had a feeling his   
mental cringe manifested on his face. "So you can count to ten and you know the   
first letter of the alphabet. Your parents must be so proud."

Instead of the usual   
response that Rodney got on planes, namely the flaring temper and demand to be   
seated _anywhere_ else, this guy just raised an eyebrow and shrugged.   
"That's cool. I like the aisle seat anyway," he drawled, then lifted his guitar   
case to stow it in the overhead bin. The man's black t-shirt rode up over the   
waistband of his low slung jeans, revealing a sliver of tan belly and an arrow   
of dark hair dipping below the waistband. He had hipbones that looked like   
they'd been chiseled out of marble. The thought that Rodney would be sitting   
next to _that_ was almost enough to override the dawning horror that he'd   
be forced to sit next to a hippy folk singer. For ten hours.

Guitar safely put away, the   
man flopped down next to Rodney. The tiny, two-person row meant that their   
elbows touched, and Rodney ignored the spark he felt at the contact in favor of   
wondering how the hell the man was able to sprawl like that in coach. "Jake   
Sullivan," the guy said, holding out his hand. Up close, Rodney could see the   
barest shadow of stubble on his jaw.

Rodney frowned and   
grudgingly shook Jake's hand. "Dr. Rodney McKay. And _no_, I am not a   
medical doctor. I have multiple PhDs in subjects beyond your comprehension."

The corner of Jake's mouth   
turned up in that half-amused way that Rodney was quickly learning to find   
irritating, and as soon as Rodney realized his eyes were fixated on Jake's lips   
he snapped his gaze back to his laptop. "So, Rodney," Jake said, voice low   
despite the clamoring chatter of the other passengers, "What brings you to   
Paris? Business or pleasure?"

Rodney groaned. "You're not   
one of those chatty types, are you? Please, tell me you don't plan on   
chronicling your entire life story in tedious detail for the next ten hours."

That actually got Jake's   
eyebrows to rise. "Trust me, the thought never even crossed my mind."

"Good, well, see that it   
doesn't."

Jake seemed to pout a   
little at that, his overly expressive eyebrows bunching together, but thankfully   
he kept to himself. Well, at least until the plane was getting ready to take   
off. Rodney ignored the gentle nudges at first, figuring they were the   
accidental side effects of being jammed into a flying sardine can. When the   
nudges became all out jabbing pokes, Rodney said, "What? Did you take so many   
bong hits that you killed all but your most annoying brain cells? What do you   
want?"

Jake smiled at Rodney's   
outburst, which was perplexing and somehow even more annoying than the poking.   
"I think if the flight attendant glares at you any harder, her head might   
explode," he whispered blithely. "You should probably put that thing away."

Rodney glanced up to see   
that the flight attendant who'd been harassing him to "turn off _all_   
electronic devices" was once again headed his way. He rolled his eyes and   
hastily shut the laptop down, scowling at the flight attendant as she turned her   
nose up in smug victory. Without his work, there was nothing to distract Rodney   
from the take off. Not that he minded flying. Not really.

Outside his window, the   
engines roared to life. Rodney gripped the armrests with sweaty palms. Okay, so   
maybe he minded flying a little.

He shut his eyes and began   
mentally reciting the Mersenne primes as he felt the plane begin to move, a slow   
roll as they taxied to the runway. _31,_ _127, 8191_. The plane   
rumbled and shook as it rolled into position, and Rodney clenched the armrests   
with white knuckles as he waited for that sickening lurch that would tell him   
the plane had lifted into the air.

_131,071. 524,287_.   
Rodney felt a tap to the back of his hand and he jolted in surprise. Jake was   
looking at Rodney with a curious expression as he asked in a stage whisper, "Do   
you realize you're whispering prime numbers to yourself?"

"Yes, well, I do _now_.   
And I hardly—wait, how did you know they were prime numbers?"

"I like math," Jake   
shrugged, as if he'd just declared he liked cookies, not complex numerical   
concepts. "I also like college football, Ferris wheels, and anything that goes   
over 200 miles an hour. And also flying. I take it you're not a fan?"

Rodney gaped, open-mouthed,   
at the beautiful brain wrapped in bald-faced stupidity. "Gee, did you figure   
that out all on your own? Clearly, your freakish math skills don't translate   
into any other kind of usable intelligence."

"I suppose it wouldn't help   
your panic attack if I explained the Bernoulli principle?" Jake said airily.

"Hello? Multiple PhDs,   
here!" Rodney felt mildly insulted, and more than a little off balance. "And I   
am not panicking!" Rodney squeaked as the plane went over a bump on the runway,   
then frowned at Jake's unconvinced expression.

"C'mon, Rodney, there's   
nothing to be worried about," Jake said placatingly. "Flying's just…it's like   
sex, really. And who doesn't like sex?"

Rodney blinked. He was   
clearly delusional, and this was a hallucination brought on by insufficient   
cabin pressure and hypoxia. There was no way the most gorgeous man Rodney had   
ever met was sitting next to him and casually talking about sex. The world was   
cruel, but it wasn't _that_ cruel.

Jake rolled his eyes,   
obviously taking Rodney's wide-eyed expression for doubt. "Look, I'll prove it   
to you. Close your eyes." When Rodney only squinted dubiously, Jake commanded,   
"Just do it, McKay." Rodney complied with a sigh, then nearly jumped when he   
felt Jake's fingers touch the back of his hand.

"Okay," Jake began, drawing   
slow circles on the back of Rodney's hand, tickling the fine hairs. "Start by   
feeling the rumble of the engine, the way the thrum seems to settle under your   
skin."

Rodney could certainly feel   
his skin vibrating, but he doubted it had anything to do with the engines. "I   
don't think this is such—"

"There's no talking," Jake   
whispered smoothly, but the way his fingers were pressing down on Rodney's   
knuckles meant he wasn't letting Rodney go anywhere until he'd made his point.   
Apparently satisfied that Rodney wasn't going to try to squirm out of his   
clutches, Jake resumed drawing lazy patterns on the back of Rodney's hand.   
Rodney focused on the touch despite his better judgment, his attention   
unwillingly drawn to the tingles of pleasure creeping up his arm. "Now, once you   
feel your body humming in time with the engines, concentrate on the movement of   
the plane. Feel the way it presses you back into your seat as we pick up speed."   
Rodney felt it, felt the plane speed down the runway until Rodney's stomach was   
being wedged between his kidneys. He also felt Jake's breath on his neck, wanted   
to open his eyes and see how close Jake's face was to his own. "You can feel it   
holding you there. You can feel the pressure change, feel your heart rate pick   
up, feel the blood rush to your head as we lift off." Rodney's blood was   
definitely rushing, but it wasn't to his head. "The pressure keeps building as   
we go higher and higher. You start to feel that eager trembling at the base of   
your spine, all that built up tension as you reach the peak, ready for—"

"That's enough!" Rodney   
snatched his hand away from under Jake's fingers, mortified by how breathless he   
sounded. "This really isn't helping."

Jake smirked dangerously.   
"I was just trying to prove a point." Jake gave him a look of deep   
contemplation, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle behind his eyes. "You   
know what I think?"

"I'm sure I don't care,"   
Rodney said, desperately trying to dismiss the topic, wondering when the hell   
he'd lost control of the conversation. "And what did I say about the chattiness?   
Let me spell this out for you in small words so you can understand: Do not talk   
to me."

Jake ignored him,   
continuing on as if Rodney had never spoken. "I think you don't like flying   
because it's something you can't control. Your life is in somebody else's hands,   
and there's nothing you can do about it."

Rodney felt his ire rise   
along with his pulse. There was no way this could be good for his blood   
pressure. "Is this supposed to be making me feel better?"

Jake shrugged. "Face it,   
buddy: you're a control freak. You need to let go, just chill out. Who knows,   
you might actually start having fun."

"Excuse me? Just because it   
doesn't qualify as 'fun' for you unless illicit botanical extracts are involved,   
it doesn't mean I don't know how to have a good time," Rodney spat. "And for   
your information, if I didn't control everything at work those idiots would have   
created a CalTech-shaped crater several times by now. I swear, my little sister   
could _finger paint_ more coherent exotic particle flux calculations than   
the gibberish those morons try to pass off as physics. I wouldn't have to baby   
sit them if I thought they could be trusted around the expensive equipment long   
enough to keep themselves from blowing itty bitty pieces of California back into   
the ocean. And why should I listen to the advice of some Bob Dylan wannabe who   
can't be bothered with even minimalist grooming necessities such as a razor or a   
comb?"

"I own a comb," Jake   
pouted, full bottom lip almost distracting Rodney from his rant.

"Oh, yes, which you   
probably use as a harmonica to go along with your—" Rodney abruptly came to a   
halt when he caught sight of the view from his window. There were tiny patches   
of land visible through the wispy clouds, the distant horizon fading in the   
twilight. "Oh. We're flying."

After a few stunned   
moments, Rodney glanced at Jake to find the man smirking proudly, insufferably   
smug that he'd managed to distract Rodney from his mild panic attack.

"Oh, get over yourself,"   
Rodney huffed. He took out his laptop and busied himself with Radek's equations,   
savoring the silence when Jake grabbed a pillow from a passing flight attendant   
and seemed to slouch towards sleep. But there was an uncomfortable tension in   
Rodney's chest, growing behind his sternum and rising into his throat. It felt a   
little like the time his parents had made him apologize to Jeannie for stealing   
her favorite Barbie to play Nuclear Reactor. Rodney didn't know why he should   
feel any differently about snapping at this guy than he did about the ten lab   
techs he made cry on a daily basis. But the harder he tried to ignore Jake, to   
keep his eyes from darting sideways to sneak a glance at his exposed throat or   
the way his chest steadily rose and fell under the t-shirt, the harder it was   
for Rodney to ignore the prickly feeling at the back of his neck. Finally, when   
he simply couldn't stand it anymore, he blurted, "Business."

Jake opened his eyes and   
rolled his head lazily to the side, watching the side of Rodney's face. "What?"

Rodney swallowed down his   
nervous energy. "Your question from before, I'm…I'm going to Paris for   
business."

Rodney watched from the   
corner of his eye as a slow smile spread over Jake's face. "Damn, and here I was   
hoping you'd say pleasure," Jake drawled, his voice still rough from   
almost-sleep. It made Rodney's stomach do funny things that he was relatively   
sure had nothing to do with motion sickness. "Y'know, that's why most people go   
to Paris."

Rodney grimaced in disgust.   
"Oh, please. I have much more important things to do than waste my time on inane   
romantic drivel. Save that for the tourists."

Jake frowned at that, but   
thankfully let it go. "Okay, so…Would your important business have anything to   
do with those equations you keep staring at?"

Rodney blinked down at his   
laptop screen. He'd almost forgotten it was there. "In a way. My last remaining   
research partner decided to trade in her physics degree for a French beret, and   
I'm out here to convince her that she's making the biggest mistake of her life   
and that she'll regret it forever. I'm saving her from herself, really."

Jake blinked at him and   
raised a skeptical eyebrow. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think   
better of it and promptly closed it with a click. "Sure, okay," he shrugged.

Rodney narrowed his eyes.   
"What?"

"It's nothing. Never mind,"   
he shrugged again, pointedly closing his eyes and settling back against the   
pillow.

"Oh, don't give me that,"   
Rodney huffed. "Clearly, you have something to say about this, so you might as   
well get it out already. Or maybe you'd prefer to put it in a song?" he asked   
derisively.

Jake rolled his eyes and   
groaned a little. "Look, it's just…are you sure you're not actually doing this   
for yourself?"

Rodney glared. "Of course   
I'm doing this for myself. Without Sam my research will take twice as long!"

This time it was John's   
turn to give Rodney the 'you are an idiot' glare. "No, I meant…maybe you want   
her back because you're lonely."

Rodney gaped in shock, then   
felt an irrational surge of anger. "Excuse me? Not that it's any of your   
business, but it's not like that. Even if Sam were to inevitably realize that   
she can't live without me, it would never work out between us. She's intimidated   
by my brilliance."

The corner of Jake's mouth   
twitched. "So, you and she never—"

"No! And for your   
information, if I wanted relationship advice from a pot-head, I'd go visit the   
psychology majors," Rodney added acidly.

Jake looked unmoved, but he   
seemed to take the hint. "Fine. I was just trying to help." His voice came out a   
bit clipped. "And I don't do drugs, so stop saying I do."

Rodney watched Jake settle   
in for another nap, and felt guilty for once again killing the conversation.   
After an awkward pause, Rodney said, "I did pot once, in college. I ate an   
entire loaf of white bread."

Jake gave him a baffled   
look, then burst out laughing. "McKay, you're one of a kind," he said, shaking   
his head.

"Mm," Rodney agreed.   
"That's nice to hear without the phrase 'Thank god' tagged on at the end."

They spent the rest of the   
plane trip in casual conversation, broken occasionally by naps that gave Rodney   
a stiff neck and meals that Jake ate stoically while Rodney ate with gusto. They   
talked about Rodney's job, Jake's music, Rodney's piano lessons, and Jake's   
giant man-crush on Johnny Cash. Each hour that passed made Rodney more and more   
convinced he was going soft, because he couldn't remember ever talking to   
someone for this long without their inherent idiocy causing a nearly   
uncontrollable urge to maim. Not to mention Jake let Rodney's insults roll right   
off his very attractive shoulders, and even made a few dry comments of his own.   
If this kept up, Rodney was going to lose his edge. How was he supposed to   
manage the lab techs when they weren't cowering in fear?

Still, at the end of the   
flight, Rodney was almost sad to exit the plane and step into the Paris   
sunlight, alone.

~~~

John hefted his guitar and   
small shoulder bag through customs, trying to keep an eye on McKay at the same   
time. He lost sight of Rodney after he was randomly selected for a search, and   
he spent a good fifteen minutes panicking until he spotted Ronon casually   
smoking outside the terminal and Rodney less than ten feet away, hailing a cab.   
He caught Ronon's eye and gave a small, meaningful nod in Rodney's direction.   
Ronon eyed McKay as he ground out his cigarette with exaggerated care, and then   
he lunged.

Ronon was fast, and John   
knew that. In seconds, Ronon had scooped up Rodney's suitcase and was tugging at   
the laptop case slung across his chest. What John hadn't expected was for Rodney   
to fight back, screaming vindictive curses at his mugger and using his broad   
shoulders as leverage to yank the laptop case out of Ronon's grasp. What John _  
really_ hadn't expected was for Ronon to respond by whipping out a knife and   
reaching for McKay.

Panic struck John like a   
blow to the chest, and without conscious thought he dropped his belongings and   
broke into a run. "Hey!" he yelled, shoving aside frightened bystanders in his   
rush to get to McKay. Ronon's head snapped up at the sound of John's voice. He   
frowned in what John had come to learn was Ronon's equivalent of an eyeroll,   
then hoisted the suitcase and took off in a sprint. A few seconds later, John   
reached Rodney's side. He clasped Rodney's arm and was met with wide blue eyes.   
"Hey, buddy, are you okay?"

"That guy just mugged me!"

he exclaimed, a little dazed. "I've been in France less than an hour and I've   
already been robbed! At knifepoint!"

John set his jaw and glared   
in the direction Ronon had run off. "Yeah, I saw that," John said, remembering   
the glint of the knife in the sunlight. He and Ronon were definitely going to   
have a talk about Ronon's definition of _unharmed_. As he maneuvered Rodney   
onto a nearby bench, he gave Rodney a cursory once over and said, "But you're   
not hurt? I mean, you're all right?"

Rodney began comically   
patting himself down, checking for injuries. "Yeah, yeah, I think I'm—Oh, god,"   
he groaned and put his face in his hands.

"What?" John asked, sitting   
next to him on the bench and trying to figure out if there was an injury he'd   
missed.

"I had my passport in that   
bag! And all my money and my credit cards! Everything! This is a disaster!"

John resisted the urge to   
smirk. At least that part of the plan had still gone off without a hitch, and it   
gave him an excuse to stick close to McKay. He still needed to get a look at   
that laptop. Resting one hand on Rodney's shoulder, he gave it a light squeeze   
and felt the way the warmth of Rodney's skin bled through the fabric. "Don't   
worry, we'll get you taken care of. It'll all turn out fine, you'll see."

~~~

Three hours and a lot of   
shouting at airport security later, Rodney had filed a police report on his   
stolen belongings and they had made their way to the Canadian Embassy to take   
care of Rodney's passport. John was trying to act casual as they milled about in   
the Embassy lobby, but there was a reason he tried to stay the hell away from   
the authorities. He distinctly remembered pulling a job in Canada last summer.   
The longer they were kept waiting, the more anxious John felt. He kept darting   
looks at the security cameras, wondering if they were running his image through   
a facial recognition program, and if they had his fingerprints on file. There   
were so many ways this could end badly.

Rodney, meanwhile,   
complained loudly that the coffee in the lobby was only a step above sewer   
sludge, so naturally he downed his first cup in under a minute. John was getting   
him his second cup—"Black, extra sugar. And not any of that fake sugar, either!   
It gives you cancer, you know."—when he saw it, tacked to a bulletin board right   
above the coffee pot. The artist's sketch wasn't quite right—the nose was too   
big and the hair was too long for the wig he'd worn on that job—but it was   
clearly his own wanted poster. John didn't even realize he'd been staring at it   
until he poured hot coffee all over his hand.

"Shit!" he hissed when he   
dropped the cup. By the time he'd mopped the mess up with a wad of napkins,   
Rodney was giving him a very odd look.

"Are you okay? You've been   
acting jumpy ever since we got here."

John shot Rodney a wry   
smile and hoped Rodney's gaze didn't drift two inches to the left, where his   
face was plastered on a wanted poster. "I don't like bureaucracy." John   
struggled not to wince at his lame excuse.

Rodney rolled his eyes.   
"Well, who does?"

John was saved from   
answering when a clean cut young man in a suit appeared. "Rodney McKay?" he   
asked, looking between the two of them.

"Doctor. _Dr_. Rodney   
McKay," he grumbled. "Why does everyone always forget that part?"

John rescued the rather   
bewildered man by taking the outstretched hand Rodney had ignored. "Jake   
Sullivan," he said, hoping this guy didn't notice that his palm was a little bit   
sweaty.

"Agent Malcolm Barrett," he   
replied with a smile that was all business. Then he peered at John a little more   
closely. "Have we met before? You seem familiar."

John panicked a little. "I   
just have one of those faces. So, what can you do about Rodney's passport?" he   
quickly deflected.

As hoped, Barrett's   
attention was redirected to McKay. "Right. I'll be working with the Paris police   
on your case,  Dr. McKay, and it shouldn't be a problem. If you'll just come   
with me, I'm sure we'll be able to get everything sorted out."

Barrett turned and headed   
back through the same door as he came, clearly expecting them to follow. John   
glanced at Rodney to see him giving John a bemused look. "I can't believe my   
case worker just hit on you."

John choked back a laugh   
and didn't bother to contradict Rodney. The rest of their time with Barrett   
passed by in a blur of paperwork and Rodney's resulting rants about the evils of   
bureaucracy, and John couldn't help smiling when he thought that maybe that part   
was at least a little for his benefit. But the really interesting part came as   
they were wrapping things up.

"So, Dr. McKay, it seems   
that everything is in order," Barrett said. "If we need anything else, where can   
we reach you?"

Rodney opened his mouth to   
answer, then closed it again. "Oh god, I don't have anywhere to stay. I don't   
have any money, or credit cards, or—"

And that was the moment   
John had been waiting for. "He'll be staying at the Hôtel Les Jardins   
D'élysées."

Rodney's head snapped   
around to look at him. "I will?"

"Can't have you sleeping on   
the streets of   
Paris now, can we? You can stay   
with me for a few nights." He could tell Rodney was about to protest, so he took   
a step forward until he was several inches too close. Casually, he reached out   
and ran his fingertips down Rodney's forearm, then lightly clasped Rodney's   
wrist. The touch was soft, and John was surprised to feel sparks shoot through   
his arm like a shock to his system. He wondered if Rodney felt the same thing.   
He lowered his voice and prodded, "C'mon, don't bail on me now, buddy. We're   
just getting started."

Rodney swallowed thickly,   
and John inwardly crowed when he saw a bit of a blush rise to Rodney's cheeks.   
"Yeah, okay," Rodney agreed shakily.

Barrett clearing his throat   
made John realize he was still in Rodney's space, staring at the way his mouth   
turned down at the corner. John reluctantly took a step back and glanced at   
Barrett, who was trying to stifle a smile. "I'll make a note of it and follow up   
with the police. If there's anything else, feel free to contact me. Otherwise,   
don't let me keep you," he finished knowingly.

Barrett probably thought   
the way John rushed out of the building had something to do with wanting to get   
Rodney back to his hotel room as fast as possible—which, okay, was partly   
true—but really he just wanted to get out of there before somebody recognized   
him and arrested him.

Once they reached the   
hotel, John quickly checked in using a fake credit card. They passed by a wall   
of renaissance-style frescoes on their way to the elevator, and John had to   
smile at the way Rodney was gazing at the artwork from the corner of his eye,   
pretending not to be amazed by the image of the embracing lovers.

Their room wasn't exactly   
Versailles, but it was elegant and tasteful, decorated with typical European   
flair. There was fashionable art on the walls and a small chandelier hanging   
over the bed, but the best part about the room was evident when John threw the   
curtains open and revealed a picturesque view of the Eiffel

Tower. No matter how many times   
John came to Paris, that sight took his breath away every time.

As soon as John tucked his   
small shoulder bag safely in the closet, he turned to Rodney and said, "Make   
yourself at home. I've got a few errands to run, but you should have time to   
take a shower and order some room service while I'm gone," he said, grabbing the   
menu from the nightstand and tossing it to Rodney. "Do you speak any French?"

Rodney blinked at him.   
"Canadian," he spoke as if explaining the concept to a particularly dim child,   
pointing at his own chest.

"Right," John said dryly.   
"So that's a yes?"

Rodney rolled his eyes.   
"I'll be fine, as long as they don't put lemon on anything." Suddenly Rodney's   
face blanched, and John thought for a second he might faint, but then he said,   
"Oh my god. I don't have an Epipen. It was in my suitcase! If I go into   
anaphylactic shock, I won't be able to—"

The allergy thing had been   
in Rodney's file. Luckily, John had a plan for that. "Rodney. _Rodney_,   
relax," John interrupted. "You'll be fine. Just tell them no lemon: aucun   
citron."

Rodney stared at him. "You   
speak French?"

John started heading   
towards the door to hide his grimace. "I, uh…know a few phrases."

"And one of them is 'no   
lemon?'" Rodney asked, bewildered. Not that John could blame him. Most people   
learned phrases like "where is the bathroom?" and "how much does this cost?"   
while John learned phrases like "put down the gun" and "no lemon." Under other   
circumstances, he was sure Rodney would be flattered John wanted to look out for   
him.

"I'll call Barrett and get   
him to send over a new Epipen," John sidetracked. "You'll be fine," he said to   
Rodney's shell shocked face, then ducked out the door in a hasty exit. Like he'd   
said, he had errands to run.

~~~

"What the _fuck_,   
Ronon?" John bellowed before he'd even finished crossing the threshold,   
unsurprised to find the door to Ronon's hotel room unlocked. "You want to tell   
me why the hell you pulled a knife on the guy?"

Ronon didn't look up from   
watching a car explode on the TV. "I was just going to cut the strap to his   
laptop bag," he said around a mouthful of popcorn. "You said not to hurt him."

"Oh," John said, wind   
completely taken out of his sails. "Right." He should have known better, really.   
He and Ronon had met on one of John's early jobs, had hit it off, and now they   
called each other in for a favor or two when they needed it. John knew Ronon's   
methods, that he didn't use violence like that unless it was necessary, although   
if he was bored he tended to incite bar brawls and take John along for the ride.   
Looking back on his reaction at the airport, John wondered what had made him   
lose his head like that.

"Stuff's in the closet,"   
Ronon interrupted his thoughts, absently flipping through a few channels.

John lugged Rodney's   
suitcase out into the open and briefly rifled through it, looking for files,   
discs, anything that might be a link to Rodney's research. He wasn't really   
expecting to find anything, but it was still disappointing when the only thing   
he turned up of any use was Rodney's Epipen. "Dammit. I really need to get   
another look at that laptop," he said, thinking out loud.

He looked up to see Ronon   
at his side, holding a beer in each hand. John took one and downed about half of   
it in frustration as Ronon said, "So, you want me to send his stuff back to his   
place? Say the cops found it?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, might   
as well. After all, where else is Rodney going to find an 'I'm with genius'   
t-shirt?" he groaned affectionately, tossing the shirt back into Rodney's   
suitcase. 

Ronon took a long, slow   
drink, then said, "So tell me about him."

John didn't like the way   
Ronon was looking at him. John didn't know why, but it made him feel like a kid   
caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "There's nothing to tell," he said   
casually, feeling his ears redden inexplicably.

Ronon just grunted and kept   
staring at John with that unnerving look, then finally said, "I've got Grand   
Theft Auto 4." 

John felt oddly relieved   
and made a mad dash for the TV. "Cool," he said. "Hook it up."

~~~

By the time John made it   
back to the room with a small bundle under his arm, he'd only been gone a couple   
of hours, but the room looked like it had been occupied for a week. There were   
wet towels on the bathroom floor and it looked like dirty dishes had exploded   
outward from a central point of origin, namely the giant room service tray full   
of food at the foot of the bed. Rodney was seated next to it, obviously fresh   
from the shower, wearing a bathrobe and an undershirt and John supposed boxers   
underneath. He was simultaneously scrubbing a towel through his hair and   
stuffing a crepe into his mouth. Somehow John wasn't surprised at Rodney's   
ability to multitask.

When Rodney heard John   
enter, he looked up and smiled. "Jake! You've got to try this. I mean, I know I   
said I hated this country, but that was before I tasted the food. You wouldn't   
believe how good some of this stuff is. If there was ever a stereotype that I'm   
glad the French live up to, it's the food. Even the sandwiches taste like   
gourmet delicacies. And they make this little crème puff thing, it's amazing!   
You should try it! Well, I mean, you can't right now, I ate them all, but we   
could order more."

Rodney continued to gush   
over the food, but John had stopped listening in favor of just watching Rodney.   
His face was beaming and almost as animated as his hands as he talked. His hair   
was damp and sticking up in fluffy spikes where he'd scrubbed at it with the   
towel, and his eyes were sparkling with that same open happiness he'd seen in   
the picture at Rodney's apartment, the look that had fascinated John in the   
first place.

Desire and affection   
swirled thickly in John's gut, and he wanted nothing more at that moment than to   
kiss Rodney, to run his fingers through his hair and press him back into the   
mattress, to lick away the drops of moisture still clinging to Rodney's skin   
after the shower. He took a few steps forward before he caught himself and   
hastily reigned those emotions in. It was no problem if he liked Rodney, but he   
couldn't afford to _like_ him. Feelings like that only complicated things.

Pulling his focus back to   
the task at hand, John caught the tail end of Rodney's rant. "Surprisingly, the   
French fries aren't that good. But oh, the chocolate," Rodney moaned blissfully,   
and John had to tear his mind away from wondering if Rodney would moan like that   
in bed. "And the coffee! The coffee is brilliant! I'm working on my third cup."

John stifled his smirk. "I   
couldn't tell," he commented dryly, then grabbed up half a turkey sandwich and   
took a seat next to Rodney. "Glad to see you've settled in."

Rodney blinked at that,   
then looked down as if suddenly realizing he was pretty much only wearing a   
bathrobe. "Oh, that. Um, I sort of figured if I only have one set of clothes,   
they might as well be clean, so I sent them to the hotel laundry. Do you mind?"

"Unbelievable," John   
snorted and nearly choked on his sandwich. "Rodney, you charged over half the   
food on the menu to the room, and you're worried about the dry cleaning bill?"

Rodney pursed his lips in   
thought. "Oh, right. Good point. Sorry?" he added like it was an afterthought.

John shook his head and   
smiled around another bite of his sandwich. "Don't worry about it. Besides, I   
sort of anticipated that problem already." John held up the bundle he still held   
under his arm and showed Rodney the set of clothes he'd bought from a shop down   
the street. "I had to guess at your size," he lied easily. John watched Rodney   
run his fingers lightly over the blue button down shirt as if he was somewhat   
doubtful of its existence. John smiled, remembering the way he'd snatched the   
shirt up as soon as he walked in the door, belatedly realizing the shade matched   
Rodney's eyes. "I have a feeling blue's your color," he said, then had to fist   
his hand at his side so he wouldn't reach out to feel the heat of Rodney's blush   
against his palm.

"Look, Jake, it's not—it's   
not like I don't appreciate this and everything, it's just—" Rodney paused,   
peering at John like he was a particularly vexing equation. "Why are you being   
so nice to me?"

John was amazed at how   
easily he could read every single emotion that statement contained, even the   
ones he didn't have a name for. He couldn't help thinking that Rodney would   
really suck at undercover work. John had been able to read every flicker in   
Rodney's eyes since nearly the first moment they met, and John had to wonder how   
Rodney could get through life being that open and easy to read. Maybe that was   
why Rodney had developed his acerbic nature—he was unable to cover his emotions,   
so instead of hiding them he'd gone the other direction. He'd become so   
outwardly expressive that he was truly a force of nature, a whirlwind of fire   
and frustration that served as a defense against the open, raw nerves he was   
incapable of shielding.

The question still hung   
suspended in the air between them, and John suddenly found the lies wouldn't   
come. The last thing he needed to be feeling right now was guilty and   
protective, because nothing had changed. John still needed to do this. He was   
good at compartmentalizing his feelings, so he shoved everything but the job to   
the back of his mind. He could feel guilty about this later, along with   
everything else.

~~~

Rodney watched the emotions   
play across Jake's face, each one more confusing than the last. He'd asked   
because he genuinely wanted to know. Every time somebody had been this nice to   
Rodney, it was because they wanted something from him, and even then Rodney   
could normally tell it was like pulling teeth for them to just be in his   
presence. Rodney accepted it, because it was one of the side effects of being so   
brilliant that several institutions and government agencies couldn't get by   
without his invaluable input. But as infuriating as Jake sometimes was, he   
seemed wholly uninterested in Rodney's brains and academic clout. He seemed to   
genuinely enjoy Rodney's company, and that wasn't something Rodney encountered   
very often, even in people who weren't intimidated by his IQ.

Jake spent a few moments   
contemplating his wine glass. "I have a confession to make, Rodney. My actions   
with you haven't been entirely selfless," he said slowly, then met Rodney's   
eyes. "It's just…It isn't a whole lot of fun to be alone in Paris. And you make   
good company."

Rodney held Jake's gaze for   
several solemn moments, trying to find a way to put all the confusion and   
disbelief and gratefulness he was feeling into words. But all he was able to   
manage was a quiet, "Oh."

Jake smiled a little at   
that. Not his smug, infuriating smirk, but a soft, almost shy curve of lips.   
Holding up his wine glass, he said softly, "To making new friends."

Rodney tilted his own glass   
to return the toast with a soft ping. "To making new friends," he agreed, and   
then they both raised their glasses to their lips. He felt Jake's eyes on him as   
he drained the glass, and it made his skin burn. He suddenly realized how close   
they were sitting, how the curve of Jake's body was angled towards Rodney so   
that their shoulders were poised less than an inch apart.

Jake watched him for a few   
more seconds before he took both of their wine glasses and set them aside.   
"C'mon, I want to show you something." He stood and crossed to the balcony door,   
so Rodney followed. Jake opened the door and they stepped out into the Paris   
night, and Rodney's eyes were instantly drawn to the stunning image of the

Eiffel Tower, bathed in golden   
light.

"Oh, wow," Rodney mouthed.   
It felt like all his breath had been stolen from his lungs.

"I don't care how much you   
say you hate the touristy crap, you can't come to Paris and not want to see   
this," Jake said reverently, gazing into the distance. The light from the tower   
bathed Jake's features in candlelit hues, the warm gold and orange glow   
contrasting with the cool blue of the moonlight. He had both hands resting   
against the rail, leaning his body into the gentle breeze blowing off the Seine  
. Rodney wanted to touch the exposed skin at the small of his back, to   
see how warm it felt, and to see if his hand fit there as well as he thought it   
would.

"So, you never told me why   
you're here in Paris," Rodney said, mesmerized by the movement of Jake's hair in   
the wind.

Jake didn't look at him,   
and after a moment he said, "I came out here for business." Jake bent his head   
low, and Rodney's eyes wandered over the curve of his neck. "Now I feel like   
maybe business has, sort of…turned into pleasure," he added reluctantly, hands   
tightening on the rail.

Maybe it was the glass of   
wine, the three and a half cups of coffee, or Rodney's inherent need to act upon   
every  hypothesis his curiosity presented. Maybe it was the spell Paris seemed   
to cast on any traveler that ventured under the Eiffel Tower's shadow, or maybe   
it was just the spell of being near Jake, but something made Rodney step forward   
until he was hovering in Jake's space, so close Rodney could feel the heat   
radiating off of Jake's body and being carried away by the wind. "I know the   
feeling," he whispered. Jake was looking at him now, something dark and   
indefinable swirling in his wide green eyes. Rodney could feel the charged air   
buzzing between them, drawing Rodney in like a siren's song. Helpless to resist,   
Rodney's body moved the last few inches of its own accord, until he felt Jake's   
soft lips touch his in a gentle kiss.

The world seemed to balance   
on the head of a pin. Time slowed to a crawl, Jake's wine-wet lips frozen   
against his. Rodney waited for Jake's reaction, terrified that he might pull   
away but craving any sort of response, like the existence of the universe itself   
hinged on it. It felt like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds   
before Rodney got his wish. Slowly, oh so slowly, Jake's mouth began to move   
softly against Rodney's lips.

Like the snap of a   
bowstring, time rushed ahead to gain back the ground it had lost. Jake's mouth   
was suddenly hot and wet as he seemed to kiss Rodney with everything he had, his   
hands rough and strong as they cupped Rodney's face, angling his head so that he   
could plunge his tongue as deep into Rodney's mouth as possible. Rodney's hands   
immediately fell to Jake's back and sought out the hot skin under the hem of his   
t-shirt. Rodney returned Jake's passion with interest, pressing his mouth hard   
against Jake's as he fought for control of the kiss. He felt the world spin and   
tilt, dizzy with the surprise of it all, of knowing that this was somehow all   
he'd ever wanted and more than he'd ever hoped.

~~~

The moment their lips met,   
it was like someone flipped a giant electrical switch inside John. His world   
jolted out of focus and his blood shot through his veins like white-hot current   
through a wire. All thought of his job, his guilt, everything fell away. It was   
so easy to get lost in Rodney. He plastered his body against Rodney's, licking   
his way inside Rodney's mouth. His skin felt a thousand degrees too hot and   
suddenly all John could think about was how to get naked as fast as possible.

John pulled back long   
enough to rip his shirt off over his head, then dove back into another kiss.   
Rodney's hands landed on the bare, hot skin of John's sides and made him give an   
embarrassing shudder. He felt like his entire body was shaking. John's arms   
coiled around Rodney's neck and he sucked in a shallow breath against soft lips,   
letting it out in a shivery, "Rodney," that was swallowed by a kiss.

Rodney muttered, "Bed,"   
into John's mouth, then started dragging John along by the hips as he backed   
towards the bedroom. John managed to peel off Rodney's robe as they stumbled   
across the room, then began tugging at the hem of Rodney's t-shirt. He got it   
off just as the backs of Rodney's knees collided with the edge of the bed and   
they fell onto the mattress in an ungainly heap, the shirt flung to some unknown   
corner of the room. John was laughing and kissing Rodney, and he couldn't stop   
either one.  

John felt Rodney's smile   
under his, broad palms pressing down against his spine, the rise and fall of   
Rodney's chest against his. John fleetingly wondered how he'd been able to   
ignore this before, this magnetic tug towards Rodney that seemed to originate at   
the back of his skull. Had he really been playing it safe for so long that he'd   
turned his mind off to the possibility of this?

Rodney moaned into John's   
mouth and thrust his hips up, and John sucked in a tight breath as their clothed   
cocks brushed against each other. He wanted that, so much. He wanted every part   
of Rodney, sought each part out with his fingers as he kissed his way down   
Rodney's neck. His lips found Rodney's pulse point at the same moment his   
fingers found Rodney's nipple, and Rodney arched sharply against him. John   
grinned smugly into Rodney's neck, already planning a hundred new ways to drive   
Rodney crazy.

"Stop grinning," Rodney   
said, which just made John smile wider into Rodney's throat. "I can feel you   
grinning, and you should know that it's not—" Rodney broke off with a gasp as   
John's mouth latched onto Rodney's other nipple, swirling his tongue around the   
nub. When John began trailing soft kisses down Rodney's stomach, he glanced up   
to find Rodney watching him. He flashed another grin, and Rodney visibly stifled   
his answering smile as he muttered, "Smug bastard."

John had to tuck his face   
against Rodney's belly and laugh. He couldn't fight one more impish grin as he   
snuck his hand down to palm Rodney's erection through his boxers. "Maybe I have   
a good reason to be smug," he teased.

Rodney opened his mouth to   
respond, but John quickly pulled Rodney's boxers down and pressed his nose to   
the soft groove of Rodney's hip, breathing in the scent of hotel soap on   
Rodney's skin, and all Rodney managed was a small squeak. Rodney's cock was   
thick and red, pulsing in time with his heartbeat as John mouthed wet kisses up   
its length. He teased the slit with the tip of his tongue, one long, slow lick,   
and then he took as much of Rodney into his mouth as he could handle in one go.   
Rodney groaned loudly above him, but John barely heard him. It was like there   
was a direct connection from John's mouth to his own cock, and every drag of   
Rodney's cock against John's tongue made his own erection throb almost painfully   
inside his pants. John couldn't remember the last time he'd been this turned on   
from giving a blowjob.

When he felt Rodney's   
fingers thread through his hair, the touch was so amazingly tender that John had   
to pull off and breath hard against the inside of Rodney's thigh, kissing and   
cursing against the soft skin there until his mind floated back from the bright   
white haze that had nearly claimed him. God, he was two seconds from coming,   
losing control, going out of his mind, but he'd never felt anything better. He   
slid his lips along the slick, tight skin of the shaft, swirled his tongue   
around the head, memorized Rodney's taste. Everything about the sensation was   
maddeningly perfect, but he wanted more. He was mindlessly rocking his hips into   
the mattress in time with his own movements on Rodney's cock. He fumbled with   
the top button of his jeans when he felt the front of his pants buzz. For one   
delirious moment he thought he was so turned on that his dick was actually   
vibrating, but then the last of his functional brain cells clicked on and he   
realized it was his cell phone ringing in his pocket.

Reality hit him like a slap   
to the face. He'd missed his last check in with his contact. He was supposed to   
be doing his fucking job, damn it!

Cursing up a storm, he sat   
back and dug his phone out of his pocket. Rodney looked confused and a little   
panicky, but John had his own shit to deal with. He told himself it wasn't   
running away as he made a mad dash for the bathroom, closing and locking the   
door behind him. Staring up at him from the screen of his phone was a text   
message. "It's been 48 hours. Report."

"Fuck," John cursed,   
running a hand through his hair. For a brief moment, he'd forgotten he was   
supposed to be playing a part. John was good at this, only showing people parts   
of himself, dressing them up and making people think they were getting the whole   
package. But Rodney openly and unashamedly let John in, laid everything bare for   
John and all the world to see, and John was a little bit in awe of him for it.   
It was so unexpected that John found himself letting his guard down around   
Rodney, and it had thrown him completely off balance. 

John caught sight of his   
reflection in the mirror. His hair was a wild mess, his pupils were blown wide   
and his lips were red and swollen. He shut his eyes against the sight and tried   
not to think about what had made him look that way. He tried not to remember the   
way Rodney's crooked mouth had fit against his like matching puzzle pieces, the   
way Rodney's cockhead felt when it bumped the back of his throat, the way   
Rodney's hands had felt like fire and ice against his skin…

Opening his eyes, John   
spoke to his own reflection. "Look, it's no big deal. It's just a little casual   
sex. You've done this dozens of times before. This time shouldn't be any   
different."

Except that it was. This   
time, stupidly, John didn't want his night with Rodney to be about work. He   
wanted to be able to stop pretending, to let go, to give instead of take. This   
time, John wanted more.

"What's your problem?" he   
asked himself angrily, wondering if he was cracking up. "Pull it together. It's   
just a job." John watched something like realization flicker across his face in   
the mirror, and then he said it again, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's   
just a job."

Whipping out his cell   
phone, John knew this was probably the most idiotic thing he'd ever done. Ten   
million dollars wasn't something you just threw away, but John didn't even think   
about that as he typed out his reply. "No deal. Found better offer."

John sent his message, and   
then he couldn't get back to Rodney fast enough. He threw open the door, but he   
only managed a few steps into the room before he stopped short. Rodney had his   
back to John, and he was once again wearing his boxers. He turned at the sound   
of the door opening, and John saw he had his shirt in his hands. John felt his   
eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. "Rodney?"

Rodney turned away and   
resumed trying to find the armholes of his shirt as he spoke in a rush. "Look, I   
don't know if that was your wife or your girlfriend or whatever, but I think   
it's clear that you don't want to do this. I should go. I mean, not that it   
wasn't—"

"Rodney," John said softly,   
laying a hand on Rodney's bare shoulder. His skin was warm to the touch. "Trust   
me, I definitely still want to do this." John pulled Rodney's shirt from his   
hands and tossed it away, edging his way back into Rodney's space. "There's no   
wife, no girlfriend, no _boyfriend_," he said, punctuating each statement   
with a soft kiss, feeling Rodney melt a little more with each one. "No boss to   
call at inappropriate times and screw things up," he added meaningfully. "It's   
just us, Rodney." He began nudging Rodney back towards the bed, small kisses and   
touches guiding their way. Then John made a show of taking out his cell phone   
and placing it on the nightstand. "It's just us, now."

Rodney hesitated a half   
second longer, then whispered, "Okay," and engulfed John in a deep, passionate   
kiss. They somehow managed to peel each other's clothes off through John's   
mental fog of _too good, too much, more_. When there was nothing separating   
them but skin and air, John lowered Rodney slowly back onto the bed, covering   
every inch of Rodney's body with his own. They kissed for a mind numbing   
eternity, until every fiber in John's body was singing with pleasure, lazily   
grinding against Rodney with no particular goal in mind but the joy of being   
here.

Rodney, however, seemed to   
be steadily hurtling towards the edge of the precipice. He met each roll of   
John's hips with increasingly incoherent mumbling that progressively degenerated   
until all he could manage were needy moans. John drank in every word, every   
sound, breathing them in until his lungs were filled to bursting. He barely   
registered Rodney's breathy, "More, please—I can't—_please_," until he felt   
one of Rodney's hands leave his body and fist the bed sheets.

"Okay, yeah," John said,   
and then, "God, yes," as his fingers closed around the bottle of lube he'd   
hidden under the pillow earlier when Rodney wasn't looking. He propped himself   
up above Rodney, one hand bracing his weight on the mattress by Rodney's head   
while his knees straddled Rodney's hips. Never letting his eyes leave Rodney's,   
he slicked up two fingers and reached behind himself, sliding down the cleft of   
his ass until he found his own entrance and pushed inside. Rodney watched his   
face, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as John pumped slick fingers in and out of   
himself, fucked himself, prepped himself for Rodney. John didn't speak, he   
barely even breathed as he kept his eyes locked on Rodney, heated gaze bold and   
stripped bare. He felt his eyelids droop in pleasure as he pressed in a little   
farther and scissored his fingers, but still he held Rodney's focus, trying to   
tell him without words, _This is for you. It's all for you_.

Rodney smoothed his hands   
over the damp skin at the dip of John's spine, making him arch and press _just   
there_, and John felt his eyes roll back in his head and his limbs shake.   
From underneath him, Rodney kissed the corded muscles of his neck and whispered   
variations of, "You're so amazing god you're beautiful I can't believe this is   
happening," over and over until the words beat in time with the pulse in his   
neck.

John was filled with a   
white-hot, burning _need_ so he forced his joints to move, sitting up and   
reaching back to position himself over Rodney's cock. John pressed down slowly,   
sweetly, and even though John had lived his entire life without ever really   
finding a place to call home, when he felt their bodies join it was like finding   
where he belonged.

~~~

It was like watching the   
birth of a star. At least, that's the closest metaphor Rodney could dredge up   
from his admittedly limited experience. Jake's golden skin glowed in the light   
filtering in from the   
Paris night, his skin glistening   
with sweat as he sat almost motionless, like he was just soaking in the feeling   
of their connection. But Rodney was never one to sit motionless, and soon his   
hips began giving little involuntary thrusts up. Jake let out little gasps of   
surprise each time, like each jolt of pleasure was a new discovery of something   
he'd never experienced before. The thought gave Rodney's ego a minor thrill when   
he considered the possibility that Jake had never done this before, or that he   
had but he'd never known it could be like _this_.

Rodney's hands settled on   
Jake's hips, thumb resting in the groove of his hipbone like it was made to fit   
there. He thrust a little harder, holding Jake steady as Rodney's hips lifted   
him slightly upward with each push. Jake ran his hands through his already messy   
hair, making it stick up in wild, sweaty spikes. He let his eyelids flutter   
closed and bent his head, resting his hands on the back of his neck, making his   
biceps flex as he began rocking his hips to match Rodney's movements. He seemed   
lost somewhere inside himself, the corners of his mouth twitching upward   
slightly. Rodney watched as Jake's small smile grew and the heat built in   
Rodney's belly, pleasure building until Jake's smile was stretched from ear to   
ear, head thrown back in bliss, and every nerve ending in Rodney's body was on   
fire. He grabbed Jake and pulled him down for a kiss, wild and wet and   
desperate. Jake met him with a burst of laughter into his mouth, joy spilling   
into Rodney's lungs and into his blood. Jake writhed against him, thrusting in   
counterpoint to Rodney's hips and rubbing his cock against Rodney's stomach as   
they kissed each other deep. With a shudder and a surprised moan, Jake came,   
warm, wet fluid spilled between their bodies.

Instantly, supernovas   
exploded behind Rodney's eyelids. The earth stopped rotating and Rodney felt   
weightless, like the natural laws of the universe were taking time out to   
witness. He was distantly aware of shouting Jake's name as his own orgasm   
rocketed through him while Jake was still in the throws of his aftershocks. When   
the world started spinning again, he felt Jake collapse to his chest in a   
delirious heap. He muttered something into Rodney's neck that sounded like, "N't   
Jake, 's J'n," before he passed out, but considering Rodney's brain was still   
struggling to process basic motor functions he didn't make much of it. He had   
just enough presence of mind to roll them onto their sides and wipe away the   
worst of the mess with the sheet before he surrendered to unconsciousness along   
with Jake, head pillowed on his shoulder.

~~~

John was pulled reluctantly   
towards consciousness by a buzzing in his head. The first thing he was dazedly   
aware of was a strong arm wrapped around his chest and hot breath on the back of   
his neck. He smiled at the memory of last night and settled back more snugly   
into Rodney's soft warmth. He was about to doze off again when he remembered the   
buzzing noise that had woken him up in the first place.

John's phone was vibrating   
quietly on the nightstand. He was half tempted to just chuck the thing into the   
trashcan, but he supposed it could be another job offer and he didn't really   
want to pass that up. Reluctantly, he reached out to grab the phone, and Rodney   
groaned and rolled with him in sleep. John tried not to be a fourteen-year-old   
girl about how happy it made him that Rodney couldn't stand to be more than a   
few inches away, then opened the text message on his phone. As soon as he read   
it, something cold and heavy settled in his gut.

"Finish the job or I will   
send someone who can. I do not give second chances."

John wasn't stupid. He knew   
there was such a thing as academic espionage, but he also knew it wasn't the   
sort of thing that people paid ten million dollars for. The people who wanted   
Rodney's research had something else in mind besides getting a hefty research   
grant. John knew he was dealing with shady characters, and he didn't doubt that   
they wouldn't hesitate to take both himself and Rodney out of the picture. Just   
the thought of it was like ice water in John's veins.

_Damn it_.   
John didn't have a choice. He had to give them what they wanted, or they were   
both dead. He slipped slowly from under Rodney's arm, ignoring the sleepy   
grumbles, and stepped into the chilly early morning air. He immediately missed   
Rodney's warmth, and he busied himself with getting dressed, trying not to think   
about how much more welcome Rodney's fingers would feel against his skin instead   
of the stiff fabric. Rodney shifted grumpily in his sleep. John watched the   
moonlight from the window ripple across Rodney's naked back, and he wanted to   
chase the motion with his lips, to feel Rodney wake up under his kisses, to rock   
their bodies together until the morning passed them by. He'd already taken a   
half step towards the bed before he stopped himself, hastily shutting down that   
line of thought. He had to close himself off to those feelings or he would never   
make it out of here.

He located Rodney's laptop   
and booted it up, hoping he'd have more luck than last time. Rodney could wake   
up at any minute, and John didn't relish the idea of seeing Rodney's expression   
when he realized what was happening. John once again flipped through Rodney's   
nondescript folders, looking for something he must have missed last time. When   
he came to the folder labeled "gay porn" he paused. There was something off   
about that. Rodney was a genius. He wasn't stupid enough to encrypt a bunch of   
gay porn and then _label it_ "gay porn." On a hunch, John downloaded the   
file to his cell phone and ran it through a decryption program. He felt an odd   
mix of victory and disappointment when the words "Wormhole Research" popped up   
at the top of the screen, followed by long strings of equations and text. That   
was exactly what his employer wanted.

Quickly, he disconnected   
from the laptop, grabbed his small shoulder bag from the closet and headed for   
the door. He hesitated once he caught sight of Rodney spread out on the bed,   
sleeping soundly and drooling a little on the pillow. John's lips twitched into   
a sad smile. He hated leaving this way, without so much as a goodbye. He wanted   
to reach out and run his fingers through Rodney's hair, to lean over and press a   
kiss to Rodney's forehead, right on the spot where his brows were still furrowed   
even in sleep.

Instead, he ripped a sheet   
off the notepad by the bed and scribbled a hasty note. He wanted to write more,   
something to thank Rodney for last night, but he couldn't figure out how to say   
it without sounding like an asshole. John had forgotten he could still feel that   
way, that he could sometimes actually enjoy being himself. He felt like he was   
waking up from a long, dreamless sleep, and he didn't want to let go of that, or   
any of the other emotions Rodney had awakened in him. In the end, he left the   
note and the laptop on the bed and headed for the door, forcing himself not to   
look back. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

~~~

When Rodney awoke, the   
morning sun was streaming in through the windows. He smashed his face further   
into the pillow and stretched into a groan, hoping to ward off morning for a few   
more seconds. His muscles protested the movement, loudly in some places, and   
Rodney tried very hard not to think about how long it had been since he'd used   
those particular muscle groups. Instead, he focused on his memories of last   
night, letting his mind drift to the feel of calloused fingers on his skin, the   
way he could still smell cheap cologne on the sheets, the way Jake had looked as   
he was about to come.

Smiling and half hard,   
Rodney reached across the bed. When all he found was cool metal instead of warm   
skin, his eyes snapped open and saw his laptop. He sat up abruptly, tangling the   
sheets more tightly around his waist. Then he spotted the note.

He snatched it up and read   
it, then read it again, hoping it didn't mean what he thought it did. Each time   
his eyes flicked over the words, it was like Rodney was stepping out of a warm,   
perfect dream, being pulled further and further towards cold reality when all he   
really wanted was to stay asleep just a little longer. He didn't want to believe   
what this meant, but when he powered up his laptop and opened the access logs,   
his suspicions were confirmed. It took all his strength not to chuck the damn   
thing across the room in rage.

Half an hour later, Rodney   
was getting dressed with such ferocity he nearly ripped his shirt as he pulled   
it on. Well, the shirt "Jake" had bought him. _'I have a feeling blue's your   
color.'_ Rodney snorted at the memory. He wondered if anything Jake had said   
had been true. Probably not. He'd been played from moment one, and like a sucker   
he'd fallen for it. Rodney was smarter than 99.8% of the general population, but   
at that moment he felt like the biggest fool on the planet.

Rodney was still staring   
ruefully at his laptop when there was a loud crash and the hotel door was kicked   
in. He jumped back, startled, as the French version of SWAT flooded into the   
room and aimed large guns at his head. Rodney would normally be frozen in shock,   
but after the kind of morning he'd had, it just made him more pissed. He spotted   
a familiar face in the crowd. "Dr. McKay!" Agent Barrett called. "Where is he?"

Rodney didn't even bother   
asking who they were after. It was pretty obvious. "You just missed him," he   
spat. As proof, he held out the note he'd been clutching all morning, bearing   
the one sentence Rodney had read over and over until it was hatefully burned   
into his retinas: _I'm sorry_.

~~~

"He's wanted in nearly   
every country," Barrett said from behind his desk. "He's a master of disguise,   
so we have no idea what he really looks like. We can't even be sure we've got   
his fingerprints."

Rodney continued to flip   
through police sketches and images from security cameras. Some had beards or   
stubble, some where clean shaven, some had glasses, some had earrings. Some had   
blond, short hair, some had wavy dark locks that curled around pointed ears.   
"Then how do you know it's the same guy?" Rodney asked, although it was fairly   
obvious. Each picture looked different, but each face had the same smile lines   
around the eyes, the same full lips. Rodney tried very hard not to remember how   
those lips had felt against his skin, the way they seemed to fit perfectly   
against his mouth like a key in a lock, because it wasn't real. None of it was   
real.

"It's his modus operandi,"   
Barrett explained. "He typically targets women, seduces them to get what he   
wants, but it's not his only method of duping his victims into a false sense of   
security before he vanishes. Interpol has been looking for him for quite some   
time. They even have a name for him: The Wolf." He said it with a sort of amused   
reverence that made Rodney want to punch him a little. Or at least kick him in   
the shins. At Rodney's dismal expression, he continued in a tone like he was   
explaining something obvious, and that _really_ pissed Rodney off. "You   
know, like 'Wolf in sheep's clothing.' Because of his disguises, and his way   
with women."

"Fascinating as this is, it   
still doesn't explain why you busted down the door of the hotel room I was in   
instead of arresting him yesterday when he was _sitting right here_," he   
quipped bitterly.

Barrett frowned   
apologetically. "We didn't suspect anything until I saw the security tape from   
the airport. On it, he clearly signals your attacker. I recognized him as the   
man you were with yesterday, and, well, I remembered you'd be staying with him,   
so…" he trailed off meaningfully. "Anyway, we've sent word to all the local news   
stations and every police force in the country, but in all honesty, he's   
probably left the country by now," he finished with a sympathetic glance, and   
Rodney decided he'd had enough. The last thing he needed right now was pity from   
incompetent government employees.

"Right. Nice to see my tax   
dollars are good for absolutely nothing," he said, rising to leave. "Now if   
you'll excuse me, I really have better things to do with my time than sit around   
and watch you completely fail to catch him. Again."

"Wait, Dr. McKay!" Barrett   
called. "We still don't know what The Wolf wanted with you."

"Oh, nothing," Rodney   
answered dejectedly. "Just my life's work." _Because he clearly didn't want me_,   
he added silently.

~~~

"Check him," Thug Number   
One said to Thug Number Two, and John lifted his arms for the obligatory search   
and seizure. They took his gun and the knife in his boot, and it was times like   
this that John really wished he could hide knives in his hair like Ronon.

"He's clean," Thug Number   
Two said, then opened the door to let John through. John really thought that   
arranging to meet at an abandoned warehouse was a little cliché, but it wasn't   
like he got to pick the drop points.

It took John's eyes a few   
moments to adjust to the darkness after the bright Paris sunlight, but when his   
vision cleared he could make out two men in the room, in addition to Thug 1 and   
Thug 2 behind him. One of the men had mousy brown hair and something attempting   
to be a beard. The other man was tall and stout with a pock-marked face and   
cold, black eyes that made John shiver inside.

"Ah, Mr. Sheppard," the   
tall man spoke with a cordiality that did nothing to mask the underlying edge in   
his voice. "It's nice to finally meet you face to face. My name is Acastus   
Kolya." He held out his hand, but John hung back cautiously.

"How do you know my name?"   
John asked. He went to great lengths to cover his identity. It shouldn't have   
been easy to figure out.

"I think you might be   
surprised what I know about you, Mr. Sheppard," Kolya said, and suspicion   
clenched painfully at John's gut. "Don't look so shocked. I'm a businessman,   
plain and simple, and like any good businessman I like to do a little background   
research on my investments." His smile did more to raise John's unease than   
alleviate it. "And speaking of business, I trust you brought the information?"

John licked his lips. He   
was more certain than ever that he didn't want to hand Rodney's research over to   
this man, but he didn't really see a way out of it at this point. "It's on my   
phone," he said warily, indicating the device that Thug 2 had confiscated. The   
device was handed over to Kolya, who looked it over with a critical eye as if he   
could verify it's authenticity with just a glare. Then he handed it to the   
smaller man who immediately hooked it up to a waiting laptop.

"If the information has   
been falsified, Ladon will know immediately," Kolya said casually, but the   
implied threat hung thick in the air. After a few moments, the computer gave an   
ominous beep.

"It's genuine," Ladon said,   
and Kolya nodded.

"Good," Kolya said, not   
taking his eyes off John. "Kill him."

John snapped into action   
immediately. Thug 1 hadn't even reached for his gun when John jabbed an elbow   
hard into his sole plexus, then dropped him with a quick kick to his knees. His   
head crashed to the ground with a solid _thunk_ and Thug 2 already had his   
weapon aimed at John's chest. He was a split second from pulling the trigger   
when John wrenched it out of his hand. John spun around and grabbed Thug 2 by   
the throat with one hand, using the other to hold the gun to the man's temple.   
He twisted their bodies around so he had a shield between himself and the other   
men, and that was when he realized Kolya was laughing. The sound made John feel   
like he'd been punched in a lung, and he could only stare at the man in   
confusion.

"Mr. Sheppard," Kolya said   
between diminishing bouts of laughter. "I didn't mean to alarm you. I certainly   
don't intend to kill _you_. What kind of businessman would I be if that was   
how I rewarded a job well done? No, you'll get your money, and in time, we might   
have the pleasure of working with each other again." John's spirit wasn't   
exactly bolstered by that promise. "However, I must admit that I'm rather   
disappointed that my guards were so easily beaten." Kolya's eyes were vacant as   
he calmly raised his gun and shot Thug 2 right between the eyes.

John felt the man's body go   
limp as another shot rang out, and the guard's body slumped to the floor to join   
his partner. John could only stand in numb shock as his brain struggled to catch   
up with what had just happened, then raced forward so fast John had a hard time   
keeping up. Staring at the spreading pool of blood at his feet, John said,   
"You're going to kill Rodney."

Kolya nodded as he   
reholstered his weapon. "It's good business practice. Eliminate the competition,   
and I'll have a monopoly on the information."

John felt sick. His vision   
swam and his knees began to shake. He doubled over, unable to draw air into his   
lungs, his vision graying at the edges. _Oh god, no. What have I done?_ He   
thought for a second that he was going to black out or throw up, maybe both, but   
then he realized Rodney was still out there with a target on his back, and John   
managed to pull himself back from the edge. He had to do something, and he   
wouldn't be any use to Rodney if he either passed out or got himself killed.

Kolya looked at him with   
something that John supposed was meant to be sympathy, but it just looked sick   
and twisted on Kolya's face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sheppard. But I promise, it will be   
quick."

John took deep breaths,   
struggling to control his lungs. "How?" he managed to croak.

Kolya indicated the laptop   
screen where Ladon sat. The screen had two separate camera feeds, one that   
looked like a closed circuit security feed, and another that looked like a   
hidden camera that undercover operatives might wear. On each feed John could   
easily recognize Rodney's face. "I've had my men tracking him since he left the   
Embassy this morning. It will look like an accident. A mugging gone wrong. It   
happens to tourists all the time, I'm afraid."

But John had stopped   
listening. He was focused on the monitor, trying to pinpoint Rodney's location.   
There were over a dozen bridges on the Seine  
, but if John could pick out a distinguishing feature, maybe he could   
make it there in time.

"Ladon, transmit the order   
to strike," Kolya said, and John reacted as if by instinct. The gun was in his   
hand before he'd given it conscious thought, and when the bullet erupted from   
the barrel and shot straight through the computer, it was almost as much of a   
surprise for John as it was for the other two men.

John sent another shot to   
Ladon's arm as he reached for his weapon. John immediately swung his gun around   
to take out Kolya, but the man was too fast. He deflected John's shot and the   
bullet grazed his shoulder. The resulting flinch sent Kolya's own shot just a   
little wide, and John was able to duck and roll away from the second shot. He   
snatched his cell phone away from the computer as he stood, not pausing to aim   
as he fired three more shots. They pinged off the metal beam Kolya had ducked   
behind, sending out sparks and covering John's hasty exit.

He had to get to that   
bridge. He had no idea if Kolya's men would know communication was down and   
strike anyway. John ran as fast as he could to the nearest street, trying to   
picture the bridge in his mind. He knew he'd seen those arches somewhere before.

The first vehicle that John   
saw as he turned the corner was a bright blue motorcycle. He shoved the gun into   
the back of his pants and cursed at his fumbling fingers as he hotwired it. A   
few precious seconds later the engine revved to life and John gunned the engine   
to full throttle.

He could still make it.   
There was still time. There had to be.

~~~

Rodney wandered aimlessly   
over the Seine, taking stock of his situation. He had no money, no clothes,   
nowhere to stay, and he'd been duped into thinking he had feelings for a con man   
who was only after his research. He still had his ticket for his return flight   
and he had a new passport, but he had no money for a taxi ride to the airport.   
Maybe he could hitch a ride there. Hell, he'd even _walk_ there if it meant   
he could get out of this god forsaken country.

He supposed he could always   
call Sam, but he loathed the idea of having to explain his current state of   
deficiency. He felt foolish enough as it was, he didn't relish the idea of   
reliving his idiocy in Technicolor detail for the one person he almost, sort of,   
admired. Or at least respected.

He was trying to work up   
the courage to actually make the call when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.   
He spun on his heel to face a tall, heavyset man. If they were in North America,   
Rodney would have said he was built like a linebacker. And even though Rodney   
didn't even _like _football, that was just another reminder of how far away   
from home he was, because he was in the Worst. Country. Ever.

Not-Linebacker flashed a   
badge and said, "Dr. McKay, I'm from the Canadian Embassy. There's been a   
breakthrough in your case, and I was sent to bring you to the Embassy   
immediately."

Rodney forced a   
half-hearted smile on his face and told the man to lead on. He'd had enough   
crappy luck lately that he refused to get his hopes up, but it would be nice if   
his luck were suddenly turning around.

~~~

John raced between the   
cars, weaving his way in and out of the traffic in his rush to make it halfway   
across town. Rodney had to be at the bridge on Avenue Bosquet. He recognized   
those arches, and it was near the Canadian Embassy, so it was within walking   
distance. It made sense.

John sped up as the bridge   
came into view in the distance. He paid more attention to the bridge than he did   
to his own driving, trying to pick Rodney out of the crowd. He was so close, if   
he could just see him…

There! John recognized the   
fuzzy brown head and blue button down shirt. He wasn't too late.

The engine whined as John   
pushed it to its limit.

~~~

Rodney and the   
Not-Linebacker hadn't gone much past the edge of the bridge before the Embassy   
representative turned down an empty side street, and Rodney blinked at his   
surroundings. "Um, I know I'm new here, but I don't think this is the way to the   
Embassy," he began, turning to give Tall, Lumbering and Stupid a lesson in basic   
geography.

That's when he saw the gun.

~~~

John watched as the hit man   
withdrew a handgun from his coat pocket, sunlight glinting off the silencer. _  
No, no, I'm so close, so close._

He gunned the throttle and   
braced himself.

~~~

"RODNEY! GET DOWN!"

Rodney, with his ever keen   
instinct for self preservation, didn't even think. He just dropped to the ground   
where he stood. He looked up just in time to see a bright blue motorcycle slam   
into his attacker. The force of it sent the man flying into the air with a wild   
scream. The motorcycle landed on its side, skidding away in a shower of sparks   
and roaring engines. The driver was thrown into a flatspin across the pavement   
in the opposite direction, finally sliding to a stop a few feet away from   
Rodney. It was only then that he recognized his rescuer.

"You!" he shouted, pointing   
an accusing finger at 'Jake.'

Jake moaned softly as he   
sat up and began crawling painfully towards Rodney's prone position. He had   
shallow scratches along the left side of his face. The left sleeve of his   
leather jacket was ripped to shreds and he had scrapes on the palm of his hand.   
"Rodney, are you okay?" he croaked.

"You!" Rodney repeated.   
"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'll take that as a yes,"   
Jake groaned, but a relieved smile lit up his face. He looked like he wanted to   
say more, but at that moment bullets tore up the pavement right in front of   
Rodney's nose.

"Get back!" Jake shouted,   
hauling Rodney to his feet and dragging him behind the corner of a building.   
Rodney was roughly shoved up against the stone wall as Jake withdrew a handgun   
from the back of his pants and returned fire. There was a sharp rapport as more   
bullets exploded the rock by Jake's head and he was forced to pull back.

"Dammit!" he cursed. "We'll never make it out of here on foot. Rodney, do you   
know how to shoot a gun?"

Rodney felt his eyes widen   
to saucers. "_What?_"

Jake didn't let Rodney's   
near-hysteria stop him from pressing the gun into Rodney's suddenly clumsy   
fingers. "It's easy, just point that end at the bad guy and squeeze the   
trigger."

"Wait a minute!" Rodney   
grabbed Jake's shoulder. "Where the hell do you think you're going? You can't   
just leave me here!"

"Rodney, I have to get the   
bike," Jake replied. "I need you to cover me." He didn't give Rodney time to   
respond, and before Rodney could grab hold of him again he was sprinting into   
the street. Rodney watched as a burst of gunfire followed Jake to the downed   
motorcycle. He ducked behind it to avoid the spray of bullets that came   
dangerously close. "Rodney! Feel free to start shooting!" he yelled in obvious   
frustration.

"Oh, right," Rodney   
muttered to himself and leaned around the corner with the gun raised. He got off   
a few wild shots that didn't come anywhere near his targets, but at least it   
made them duck back behind the building for cover. Out of the corner of his eye   
he watched Jake fiddle with the motorcycle. He heard it sputter and die a few   
times, and just when he was about to give it up as lost the engines roared to   
life.

Jake straddled the bike and   
sped towards Rodney's position. Rodney laid down another uncontrolled round of   
cover fire as Jake skidded to a stop behind him. "Get on!" he commanded over the   
sound of police sirens in the distance.

Rodney gave him a long   
look, then shook his head. "The police will be here any minute. I'd rather take   
my chances with them."

Jake's face twisted into an   
expression Rodney couldn't place, somewhere between frustration and terror and   
blind rage. "Dammit, Rodney, not even the police can keep you safe right now.   
I'm the only chance you've got. Just trust me!"

Something snapped inside   
Rodney at Jake's words, and all the hurt and humiliation and resentment he'd   
been feeling for the last several hours erupted in one violent burst. "Trust   
you? _I don't even know who you are!_"

"My name is John. John   
Sheppard," he said, looking like Rodney's words had punctured a vital organ. "Do   
you want my social security number and birth certificate too, or can we go?"   
There was another moment of awkward hesitation, and then Jake—no, _John_—held   
out his hand. "Rodney, please. Just trust me."

Rodney clenched his jaw,   
then slapped the gun into John's outstretched hand. "You owe me one hell of an   
explanation," he said as he climbed onto the bike.

~~~

John forced himself not to   
picture the look on Rodney's face, focusing on clicking the gun's safety on and   
shoving it into the back of his pants. It was impossible for Rodney to hide what   
he was feeling, and John had seen everything in those blue eyes. He wondered if   
there was anything he could ever do to make that look go away, but now wasn't   
the time to worry about that. Any minute now, Kolya's reinforcements would   
arrive, and John wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. "Hold   
on tight," he said as he revved the engine. As soon as he felt Rodney's hands on   
his stomach he peeled out, pretending the flutter he felt was due to adrenaline   
and the kickback of the bike's engines, nothing else.

"God, we don't even have   
helmets," John heard Rodney mutter into his shoulder. "We're going to die."

"If you have anything to   
worry about, it's not my driving," John remarked wryly, hoping the wind and the   
engines didn't drown out his voice.

"Oh that's rich, coming   
from the man responsible for the goons trying to shoot holes into my very   
valuable brain!" Rodney shouted back. John swerved into a lane of oncoming   
traffic long enough to pass a few slow cars, and Rodney squeaked and held John   
tighter.

"Is this really the right   
time to discuss this?" John narrowly avoided a head on collision and turned down   
a side street. "There are people trying to kill you, Rodney!"

"Didn't I just say that?"   
Rodney countered. "And what does it even matter to you? I'm sure you still get   
your money whether I'm dead or alive."

The bike's tires squealed   
as John took a turn more sharply than he intended. "Damn it, McKay! I'm a thief,   
not a hit man! I don't kill people for money!"

"That still doesn't explain   
why you came back," Rodney said, his voice shaky from adrenaline or something   
else. John glanced in the mirror instead of answering and he caught sight of a   
black SUV on their tail, swerving between traffic and picking up speed. "John?"

Rodney prompted.

"Because I'll be damned if   
I'll let them touch you!" John shouted. _And because I have enough guilt on my   
conscience without you adding to the mix_, he added mentally. "Now hold on!   
Things are about to get interesting!"

Sure enough, there was a   
burst of gunfire just over their heads. John felt Rodney press up against his   
back like he was trying to sink into it for protection, but all it really   
accomplished was squeezing John's ribs to the point of pain. The SUV was still   
gaining, but John and Rodney had maneuverability on their side. John hopped the   
curb and started weaving between pedestrians and outdoor café tables, looking   
for an alley or pass between buildings that the SUV couldn't take. He found it a   
few blocks down, and Rodney noticed it at the same time. "Oh, no, we are not—"

"Yes we are!" John replied.   
There was another burst of gunfire as he made a sharp turn and headed down the   
stairs. The motorcycle rattled down each stone step. People dove out of their   
way, and John was thankful because it was nearly impossible to steer. When he   
reached the bottom, he merged onto the first road he came to. It wouldn't take   
the SUV long to catch up, but at least he'd bought them some time.

"Okay, that's it!" Rodney   
shouted in his ear. "I've had it! I think I have a right to know what the hell   
is going on! Who are these people and why do they want me dead?"

John's sigh was drowned out   
by the engine. "I was hired by a man named Acastus Kolya. He's a psychopath, but   
I didn't know that when I took the job." John heard Rodney snort and mutter   
something that was swallowed by the wind as he turned down a busy street. "He   
wants you dead because he doesn't want anyone else to get their hands on your   
research."

"That's ridiculous!" Rodney   
shouted. "My work isn't even finished yet!"

"Rodney, I doubt he has any   
academic interest in your research," John replied, then swerved between two   
cars. "Is there any chance that your research can be weaponized?"

"No!" Rodney scoffed.

"No?"

"No, of course not!" Rodney   
insisted. "Look, there's an inherent energy build up involved with creating a   
traversable wormhole. We've had difficulty stabilizing the massive energy   
output, but that doesn't mean you could just turn it into a bomb! You'd have to   
somehow funnel the exotic energy generated by the wormhole to create a feedback   
loop until it reached critical mass, and then—"

"So that's a yes?" John   
interrupted.

There was a pause in which   
John could practically feel the gears turning in Rodney's head. "Oh my god,   
that's a yes."

John took another look at   
the rearview mirror and saw that the black SUV was back and it had brought a   
friend. John cursed, then looked up and suddenly realized where they were. At   
the end of the street, in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in   
Paris, stood the Arc de Triomphe.

John made a beeline for it,   
hoping maybe he could lose Kolya's men in the roundabout. Gunshots erupted   
behind them, and John swerved wildly into traffic. One car in his wake skidded   
and sideswiped another while the noise of car horns filled the air. John   
maneuvered his way through the dense pack of cars without much rhyme or reason.   
Finally, he burst onto the smooth concrete under the Arc. Shocked tourists   
gasped and backed out of his way. John paused long enough to locate both SUVs.   
One was still held up by the accident John had caused earlier, but the other was   
managing its way through the traffic to their location. That gave John an idea.

"Rodney, when I give the   
signal, I need you to let go of me and fall backward."

"What?" Rodney squawked.

"You heard me!" John said,   
slowly circling the Arc, following the path of the SUV as it wormed its way   
through several lanes of traffic. John would be cutting it close, but if this   
worked then Kolya's men would be stuck pursuing on foot.

The SUV crossed one last   
lane of traffic, and John shouted, "Now, Rodney! Let go!" John gunned the   
engines and popped the front end of the motorcycle into the air. He felt   
Rodney's weight slide off the back of the bike, and then John's tires squealed   
as he peeled out. When he had enough momentum, he deliberately flipped the bike   
onto its side and jumped off, sending it sliding towards the SUV in a shower of   
sparks. John pulled his gun and aimed for the motorcycle's gas tank, then   
squeezed the trigger.

The explosion send the SUV   
rolling across several lanes of traffic, causing a string of collisions in its   
wake and bringing traffic to a standstill. John took a moment to revel in his   
minor victory before he saw the other men abandon the second SUV and head   
straight for John and Rodney, guns drawn.

John wracked his brain for   
a viable escape route. They were too open here, anywhere they ran they could be   
spotted. They needed to find a way to shake Kolya's men.

"C'mon!" John grabbed   
Rodney's hand and hauled him to his feet. "There's a Metro station near here,   
but we've got to run!" he shouted, dragging Rodney along at a breakneck pace.   
John knew Rodney wasn't used to running this fast, but if they were going to   
have a shot at making this work, they needed to _move._

They dodged people and   
traffic, Kolya's men hot on their heels, until finally the entrance to the Metro   
came into view. John pulled Rodney along, shoving people out of their way as   
they rushed down the stairs. He hopped the turnstile and Rodney followed. When   
Rodney made a break for the open doors of the train John grabbed his hand again   
and jerked him to the side. "This way," he said, pulling Rodney behind one of   
the distant pillars at the edge of the loading zone.

He pushed Rodney into an   
alcove created by a small pillar on the back wall. Rodney's back was up against   
the cool concrete and John pinned him with his own weight, then peered quickly   
around the pillar to see if they'd been spotted. He was pressed so close he   
could feel Rodney's heart beating frantically in his chest, the rise and fall of   
each harsh breath. "Is this really your idea of hiding?" Rodney panted   
breathlessly. "I doubt even in Paris that two men making out in a corner won't   
draw at least some attention."

John pressed his fingers to   
Rodney's lips and ignored the zing of electricity he felt shoot through his body   
at the touch. "Rodney, just shut up and don't move," he whispered and glanced   
around the pillar once more. He ducked back slightly when he caught sight of the   
men who'd been chasing them in the street, but he still kept them in his sights.

The leader seemed to motion   
to the other to fan out and search the platform. John held his breath as they   
came closer, considering possible scenarios if he had to fight their way out.   
But then the pair seemed to be swept up in the stream of people boarding the   
train and continued their search on board, coming to the conclusion John had   
hoped for: that he and Rodney had boarded the train.

As the doors slid shut and   
the train sped off, John relaxed and slumped against Rodney in relief. Once the   
danger had passed, John was suddenly aware of how his body was reacting to   
Rodney's presence. Adrenaline was pumping thick through John's veins, and Rodney   
was so close and he smelled so good. It was all John could do not to just bury   
his face in the crook of Rodney's neck and breathe him in. It didn't help that   
he could feel Rodney's hands squeezing convulsively on John's hips. Rodney's   
eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily through his nose, and John   
wondered if Rodney was having the same reaction. If John just pressed in a   
little closer, if he shifted his hips just right…

John stepped back with a   
massive force of will, and Rodney's hands fell from his waist. Commanding his   
lungs to resume breathing normally, he muttered quietly, "We should go. I need   
to make a call."

~~~

Rodney stood outside the   
phone booth, listening to John's half of the conversation. He was talking to   
someone named Emma, and if Rodney were a betting man he'd place good money on   
the fact that she wanted nothing to do with him. All in all, it reminded Rodney   
a lot of the call he'd just made to Jeannie, and hadn't that been a fun time?   
John wouldn't let Rodney use his cell phone since it could be tracked, so he'd   
stood in the booth having a shouting match with his sister which basically   
consisted of statements like, "No, really, people are trying to kill me for my   
brain!" and, "Of course they are, Mer. God, that is the most pathetic excuse for   
a reconciliation I've ever heard!" Once Rodney had convinced her he was in fact   
fleeing for his life from international terrorists, she hastily decided to take   
her family for an unexpected, lengthy vacation. Rodney could sympathize as he   
listened to John have the same problems with the woman he had called.

"No, Emma, you don't—_listen   
to me._ I know I said I wouldn't call again, but will you just—Emma, you need   
to get out of there. Take the kids and go visit your mother for a while…I don't   
know, maybe a week. I'll call you when it's safe." A pause, and then a heavy   
sigh. "Look, I told you, I can't go into it. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm   
just worried that some people might want to use you to get to me…I don't know.   
They may not know about you at all, but that's not a risk I'm willing to take."   
John grimaced, then said, "Yes, fine, but would you please just—Emma, I can't   
deal with this if I'm worried about you." After a brief second, John's face went   
startlingly blank, like he was lost in some thought he couldn't find his way out   
of. After a long time, he said in a quiet voice, "I know." After another long   
pause, John said, "Em, I really am—" He broke off abruptly, looking at the phone   
with that same lost expression. "Sorry," he finished to himself, then placed the   
phone back in its cradle.

"I thought you said you   
weren't married," Rodney said as soon as John hung up. He knew it wasn't any of   
his business, but he was a scientist. Curiosity was part of his nature.

John gave him a brief   
sideways glance. "She's not my wife," he said simply. "It's complicated." They   
made their way down the street, mostly because they felt edgy staying in one   
place for too long, and Rodney waited for John to elaborate. But when he next   
spoke, he said, "We need to find somewhere safe to stay for a while. Kolya's not   
just going to forget about us, and we need somewhere to rest and regroup."

After an expectant moment,   
Rodney said, "Don't look at me! I don't know any safe houses for international   
spies."

John gave him an   
exasperated look, then said, "Actually, I was thinking about that woman you came   
out here to visit."

"Sam?" Rodney asked. He   
knew Sam was tougher than most women he'd met, but she was also the closest   
thing to a friend Rodney had left. Sort of. "I don't want to drag her into this.   
What if Kolya sends his men after her?"

"If Kolya sends his men   
after her, it's because he thinks we're there," John pointed out. "Wouldn't you   
rather actually _be_ there in case something happens?"

"Honestly? No."

John snorted, but said   
seriously, "Rodney, it's all we've got right now."

Rodney reluctantly agreed,   
and they walked on in silence for a while before a sudden thought stopped Rodney   
in his tracks. "What?" John asked curiously once he got a look at Rodney's   
expression.

"Let me get this straight,"   
Rodney said. "Your name is John _Sheppard_."

John raised an eyebrow.   
"Yeah," he said slowly. "Didn't we already cover this?"

Rodney ignored him and   
pressed on. "And your nickname is The Wolf?"

John smiled as he caught   
on. "Gotta love the irony."

~~~

"So, what are you going to   
tell her?" John asked after Rodney knocked on the door.

"Oh, gee, I don't know,   
maybe the truth?" Rodney answered dryly.

John frowned. "That might   
not be the best idea. The more she knows, the more danger she could be in."

"Oh, and you're just   
thinking of Sam's welfare, right?" Rodney scoffed. He may have had a point, but   
before John could respond the door swung open to reveal a tall man in his late   
forties or early fifties, with graying hair and brown eyes. He didn't say   
anything, just raised his eyebrows expectantly and stared between them with an   
otherwise blank expression.

Expecting to see the blonde   
woman from the photo on Rodney's desk, John blinked at the stranger and then   
looked at Rodney. They shared a confused look, and then Rodney managed to close   
his gaping mouth long enough to say, "Uh, I'm…we're looking for Dr. Sam Carter."

"Yeah?" the guy prompted   
expectantly. John chanced a look at Rodney and could tell he was wondering if   
they'd somehow gotten the wrong Dr. Sam Carter. "And you are?"

"Um, I'm Rodney…Dr. Rodney   
McKay," he began, clearly trying to get a grip on the situation. John really   
couldn't offer any help, either, and kept staring suspiciously at the guy in the   
door. He managed to catch the glint of metal on his belt, and nearly had a heart   
attack on the spot when he saw the badge. Oblivious to John's panic, Rodney   
continued the introductions. "And this is John—"

"—Smith!" John interrupted,   
a little too loudly. He tried to cover it up by offering his hand and what he   
hoped passed for a friendly smile.

The guy just raised his   
eyebrow skeptically. "Really?" John turned to find a similar look on Rodney's   
face and grimaced inwardly.

"My parents weren't very   
creative," he said, and fought the urge to bang his head against the wall.

The guy seemed to shrug off   
the initial weirdness, then said, "So why are you boys looking for Sam? Are you   
friends of hers?"

"Yes!" Rodney blurted,   
obviously relieved to have the right Sam Carter after all. "Well, I am, anyway.   
Is she here? Can we see her? It's really important." He emphasized the   
importance with a few wild gestures of his hands, which the guy ignored in favor   
of turning to John.

"And you?"

"Uh," John blanked. He   
desperately needed a cover story to explain his reasons for accompanying Rodney   
that this cop would buy, without asking too many questions. It was a bad idea,   
but it was the first thing that came to his mind. "Oh, I'm just here to keep   
Rodney company," he drawled, slipping his arm around Rodney's waist and giving   
him a smitten look. "Right honey?"

Rodney looked like he was   
barely restraining the urge to wrap his hands around John's throat and squeeze.   
He was saved from having to answer by a feminine voice from inside the house.   
"Jack? Who is it?" Sam appeared at the door, took one look at Rodney, and   
judging by the expression on her face John imagined Rodney would be too busy   
explaining himself for the next several hours to bother being angry with John.

~~~

After Sam had finished   
telling Rodney off for pretty much everything under the sun, including some   
things that John didn't actually think could possibly Rodney's fault, she   
greeted John with a cheery politeness that was almost scary and invited them to   
stay for dinner.

That's when the fun   
started.

Casual conversation around   
the dinner table turned into an epic but silent battle. John started out small,   
casual touches or glances just to keep up the front that he and Rodney were a   
couple, but he got so much pleasure out of watching Rodney's face turn red,   
clamping his mouth shut on a thousand fiery retorts, that John couldn't resist   
upping the ante. He made doe eyes and kissy faces at Rodney and watched the vein   
in Rodney's forehead pulse. He called Rodney by increasingly ridiculous pet   
names and got kicked under the table so many times he was sure the bruises on   
his shins would last for days. And when Jack asked, "So, John, what do you do?"   
John gave Rodney the most obvious leer he could muster and said, "Besides what   
we do together? Not much." Then he sat back and watched Rodney make an   
expression that implied his brain was exploding inside his skull.

"And what about you, Jack?"   
John asked, passing off his inner glee as a friendly smile.

Jack gave John an   
unreadable look, then his lips twitched as he said, "I used to be in the US Air   
Force." John struggled to keep the smile plastered to his face. "I was stationed   
out here for a while, and I liked it so much that I moved out here after I   
retired." He raised one nonchalant eyebrow as John took a long drink of his   
coffee, trying to hide behind his mug. "Now I work for Interpol."

John choked on his coffee,   
and Rodney began patting John's back a bit harder than was strictly necessary.   
He could practically hear Rodney's vengeful cackle in his head.

"So how did you two meet?"   
Sam asked. It was an innocent enough question, but John and Rodney exchanged a   
nervous look.

"Uh, it's a funny story,   
actually," Rodney started, and John panicked. He knew Rodney well enough to tell   
he was a horrible liar. Two seconds into whatever story Rodney cooked up, Jack   
would be able to tell something was up and would start asking questions that   
John really didn't want to answer.

"Oh, let me tell it," John   
interrupted, plastering on the cheesiest grin he could manage and taking   
Rodney's hand. Rodney scowled murderously. "You know how I love to tell that   
story, sweetheart," he added, just to see what shade of red Rodney would turn.   
He barely covered the wince when Rodney attempted to crush his knuckles, but   
John didn't mind. It was too much fun to wind Rodney up.

And that gave him an idea.

"Well, Sam, as I'm sure you   
figured out, Rodney came here to get you to come back to California. But   
Rodney's got a terrible sense of direction, so—"

"_Me?_ Who got us lost   
three times on the way over here?" Rodney interrupted, but John ignored him.

"Anyway, he got lost as   
soon as he stepped out of the airport, and he wandered into the café where I go   
for the French Poetry readings every Thursday afternoon—I was a European Lit   
major in college," he explained as an aside, and tried to stifle a look of glee   
when Rodney groaned in agony. "Anyway, Rodney started asking for directions, and   
since he didn't speak a word of French, it wasn't very helpful. I was about to   
go up to the mike for the next reading, but I noticed one of the customers was   
taking horrible advantage of Rodney, coming on strong and trying to get Rodney   
out into the alley to 'give him directions,'" John said, complete with air   
quotes and a meaningful nod, and Rodney banged his forehead against the table.   
"I didn't have time to get the guy away from Rodney, so I worked out the   
quickest solution I could think of—I walked right up to Rodney and kissed him."

Rodney groaned into the polished wood, and John bit his lip to keep from   
grinning victoriously. "The guy backed off, we introduced ourselves, and then I   
got up onstage to read Victor Hugo. I dedicated it to Rodney," he added sappily.   
"I guess you could say it was love at first sight. Isn't that right, baby?" John   
said, giving Rodney a moony eyed look while laughing manically on the inside.   
Rodney turned a heretofore uncategorized shade of purple.

"So how did you meet?" John   
asked, glancing between Jack and Sam, who were looking stuck between amused and   
dumbfounded at John's story.

Sam answered first,   
shooting a sly smile in Jack's direction. "It was pretty simple, really. Jack   
saved me from a runaway bike messenger."

Jack nodded. "Then I bought   
her pie."

Sam rolled her eyes in   
amusement and reached over to squeeze Jack's hand. "You were very charming. Or   
at least you tried to be."

Jack smiled a little at   
that. "I still can't figure out why you decided to stick around. The pie wasn't   
even that good."

"Wait, wait," Rodney said,   
head snapping up to fix Jack with a glare. "_He's_ the reason you chose to   
give up the second most promising career in physics?"

Sam shrugged, but John   
noticed her eyes darken. "What can I say, Rodney? It was very romantic."

"Romantic? ROMANTIC?"

Rodney scoffed derisively. "Nothing good has ever come of romance! It makes you   
gushy and annoying and you do stupid, idiotic things like abandon your research   
partners and move halfway across the world and believe people who do nothing but   
lie and cheat and steal, and—" Rodney broke off when he caught sight of John's   
face, and John knew he needed to do something to cover up the way Rodney's words   
made his chest ache.

Drawing on the reserves of   
a lifetime living behind a dozen different masks, John mustered as much false   
sincerity as he could and said, "Aw, c'mon baby, you don't mean that."

Rodney set his jaw in a   
tight line and said thinly, "Yes I do." Then he spun on his heel and headed for   
the kitchen.

Sam gave them both an   
apologetic look and said, "I'd better go talk to him. Believe it or not, he gets   
like this a lot."

As she left, John and Jack   
looked at each other awkwardly. There were a few heavy moments of silence, and   
then Jack said, "So, you like hockey?"

~~~

Rodney heard Sam come after   
him, but he didn't turn around. He just gripped the edge of the counter and kept   
staring out through the dark kitchen window. After a few minutes, Sam broke the   
silence. "So," she began ominously, "who is he, really?"

"A persistent thorn in my   
side," Rodney grumbled.

Sam smiled. "Okay, fine,   
you don't have to tell me. I'm just glad to finally see you happy."

"Happy?" Rodney scoffed.

"Do I look happy to you? I can barely stand him!"

She rolled her eyes at his   
outburst. "C'mon, Rodney, it's obvious you're crazy about him. You only put that   
kind of effort into arguing with somebody when you really like them. And I've   
never seen you get this worked up over someone before."

Rodney opened his mouth to   
argue, but then promptly closed it when he realized she was right. Under normal   
circumstances, when Rodney considered someone beneath his valuable time and   
intellect he simply blew them off. He wouldn't waste his considerable brain   
power arguing quantum mechanics with someone like Kavanaugh, for instance. But   
he could remember spending infuriating hours arguing with same over energy   
fluctuations or berating Zelenka for his misplaced faith in M-theory. John was   
aggravating and frustrating and he'd played Rodney for a fool, but on some level   
Rodney still carried some lingering affection that made fighting with John,   
well…_fun_. And if it was so obvious to Sam, Rodney was terrified that John   
knew, too.

There was something about   
the way John had looked at him tonight, when he was trying to be as horrifyingly   
mushy as possible, that reminded Rodney in some small way of how John had looked   
at him their first night together. But it had all been an act, right? And even   
now, John was acting, having a laugh at Rodney's expense. So why did that look   
make Rodney feel like John wanted to tip Rodney's head back and kiss him until   
they were both breathless?

But then, Rodney was   
probably just seeing things he wanted to see. People like John could never   
really fall for anyone, because they wouldn't ever open up enough to let someone   
in. Rodney wondered if he was seeing the real John now, or if this was just   
another façade. He wondered what it would take to find the real man underneath,   
and if it would be worth whatever price he had to pay.

There was at least one   
thing that Rodney knew for certain, and that was that the arguing had to stop.

~~~

Rodney and John were shown   
to the guest bedroom and as soon as they said their goodnights, Rodney collapsed   
onto the bed fully clothed. He was nearly asleep when he felt John nudging at   
his shoulder. "Move over, you're hogging the bed."

Rodney frowned into his   
pillow and didn't open his eyes. "You can call me sweetie pie or love muffin or  
_pookie_ for all I care, you're still not getting in this bed with me. Go   
sleep on the couch."

"Rodney," John grumbled   
tiredly, and Rodney opened his eyes to glare more effectively for his second and   
final refusal. But then he saw John standing over him in only his boxers,   
moonlight casting silver edges on his skin. Rodney felt his cock stir at the   
sight, and he was suddenly very glad he was lying on his stomach.

"Fine," he groaned, rolling   
away to one side of the bed. "But stay on your half," he said, then closed his   
eyes and tried to block out the image of the way John's wet lips glistened in   
the moonlight.

~~~

_While serving in the Air   
Force, John had joined the covert ops squad for one reason and one reason only:   
Holland asked him to. Holland had saved John's ass when he had gotten trapped   
behind enemy lines in Afghanistan. He'd managed to find John by posing as a   
rogue mercenary, an arms dealer, and had actually traded some pretty heavy   
artillery to negotiate John's release. John had never really forgiven Holland   
for that, but the US Government was more merciful than John. He suspected that   
the higher ups had been secretly impressed with Holland's ingenuity behind enemy   
lines, because they'd given Holland a slap on the wrist and recruited him for   
covert ops. So there was really no arguing when Holland pressed him hard to   
join, saying simply, "You owe me one."_

_Holland taught John   
everything he knew, led them on intelligence-gathering missions and black ops   
and search and rescues deep in enemy territory. John watched Holland charm his   
way past locked doors and menace informants and bust skulls, and occasionally he   
got to fly the chopper when they needed a quick getaway. Holland was a natural,   
so much so that it amazed even their superiors. Which was why it felt unreal for   
John to be standing in Holland's living room, wearing a black suit, and reliving   
the moment that they'd lowered his best friend into the ground over and over   
again._

_Nameless, sad-faced   
strangers roamed through the house, talked in quiet voices in darkened corners.   
John knew it was ridiculous, but he felt their eyes on him all the same,   
pointing their fingers and whispering, "That's him. He's the one to blame." The   
imaginary accusations surrounded John on all sides, pressed in on him until he   
couldn't breathe. Needing to escape, John made his way through the house, up the   
stairs, searching out a quiet room to just be by himself for a while._

_He opened the first door   
he saw, and Emma's tear-stained face looked up in surprise at the interruption.   
Choking back a fresh sob, she stared at John with a heavy gaze. "You couldn't   
stand it downstairs either, could you?"_

_John hung awkwardly in   
the doorway, hands in his pockets as he shook his head slightly. Emma's gaze   
dropped back down to the photo album in her lap, and John wasn't sure what he   
was supposed to do. He'd obviously intruded into a private moment, but he didn't   
want to leave because it felt too much like running away. After a few long   
moments, John made up his mind and took a half-step back just as Emma said, "He   
talked about you all the time, you know."_

_Her tone was casual,   
inviting him to stay, and John wondered if maybe it would help to share   
memories. Still a little uncertain, John stepped into the room and crossed to   
stand by her chair, looking at the pictures from a distance. Seeing Holland's   
smiling face in the photos made John a little sick to his stomach. "Yeah?" he   
asked cautiously._

_"I know," she said as if   
John had chastised her. "I know he wasn't supposed to talk about the missions,   
and he never gave me details, but you know how Simon loved a good story."_

_  
"He never could shut up," John joked, the smile feeling wrong on his   
face._

_There was a long moment   
of silence as Emma flipped through the album, occasionally touching a picture   
that had triggered some memory or emotion that was now known only to her. "He   
loved you, ya know," she said quietly. _

_John knew. Holland had   
never loved him in the way John sometimes found he wanted fleetingly, in moments   
of weakness, but there had been a bond between them stronger than friendship.   
"He would have done anything for you," Emma continued without interruption,   
because John couldn't push words past the tightness of his throat. "Did you know   
he turned down a promotion?" John shook his head, but she didn't see it. "He   
could have come home, he could have been safe, but he said no. Said he loved the   
job too much to leave it." Her voice was tight and resigned, but there was no   
mistaking the underlying accusation in her tone. "It was true, I know that. But   
I also think he stayed because of you."_

_John suddenly realized   
his hands were shaking. With everything that had happened on their last mission,   
this was too much. "Emma, I tried," he said, voice cracking as he fought to keep   
a lid on all the emotions threatening to burst out of him. "I tried to get to   
him as fast as I could, to get him out of there, but it was too—"_

_"I know," she said in an   
unwavering voice. She closed the book and stood to face John. Looking straight   
at him through fresh tears, she said, "I know you did everything you could. But   
Simon is dead because of you, and I don't ever want to see you again." Then she   
turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind her and leaving John in   
the deafening silence of his thoughts._

John awoke to the phantom   
sound of Holland's screams over the radio, and it took him a few seconds to   
gather his bearings. He was curled into a tight ball on the edge of an   
unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, but as soon as he felt the mattress dip   
behind him, John remembered where he was and why. Rodney shifted a bit more in   
his sleep, limbs sprawled out and taking up most of the bed, stubborn and   
demanding even in sleep.

John had been free of the   
dreams for almost a year. He knew this relapse was because of the call he'd made   
to Emma and the memories it had dredged up, but that didn't make it any easier   
to deal with.

John knew from experience   
that he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes,   
the darkness filled with the sound of Holland's voice over the radio, his   
increasingly demanding and panicked calls for a pick up nearly drowned out by   
the sound of gunfire and grenades. _"Dammit, where the hell is my Chopper?   
It's getting messy down here! John, where the fuck are you?"_ John knew the   
only way to chase away the noise in his head was to get up and move, find   
something to occupy his mind until the memories got pushed back to the edges. He   
got quietly from the bed and made his way out of the room, hoping to find   
something to drown out the loudest, most persistent voice in his head: his own,   
telling himself that his best friend had died thinking John had abandoned him.

~~~

Rodney drifted into   
consciousness from an uneasy sleep. It was still the middle of the night, but   
even in the near total darkness Rodney could see that John's side of the bed was   
empty. Something hard and cold knotted in his stomach, and Rodney stared at the   
dark ceiling for a long time, waiting for the bitterness to settle. It wasn't   
like he'd actually expected John to stick around. He figured that John would   
eventually realize he was better off on his own, but some small part of Rodney   
had hoped that John had meant what he'd said, that they'd figure this out   
together. _Last time I at least got a goodbye,_ Rodney thought dejectedly.

Too restless now for sleep,   
Rodney rolled out of bed and blinked groggily into the darkness. He heard quiet   
noises coming from the kitchen, and Rodney figured that either Sam or Jack was   
also awake. There was a faint light filtering under the door, so Rodney gave in   
to his natural inclination to investigate. The noises sounded like someone   
moving in the kitchen, so Rodney headed that direction, thinking maybe a   
midnight snack would do him some good, as well. It had nothing to do with the   
possibility that whoever was awake may have seen John leave, would know where   
he'd gone.

When Rodney reached the   
entrance to the kitchen, the sight he found there stopped him cold. John hadn't   
left. He was here, standing in the open doorway of the refrigerator, his   
silhouette outlined by light. He was drinking juice straight from the carton,   
oblivious to the fact that less than eight feet away, Rodney was having a   
controlled meltdown. "What are you doing here?" he blurted before he could think   
better of it.

John choked on the juice in   
surprise at the sound of Rodney's voice. When he'd recovered, he said, "What do   
you mean? I've been right here the whole—" In the wane light of the refrigerator   
door, Rodney saw the moment John got it. "You thought I left, didn't you?" he   
asked, and edge to his voice that had Rodney swallowing down the rising guilt.   
Rodney didn't answer right away, and John seemed to take the silence as   
confirmation. With a rapid burst of anger, John slammed the refrigerator door   
shut, the sudden darkness just as unsettling as John's unexpected flare of   
temper. "Dammit, Rodney. I'm not going to just abandon you!" John growled, the   
low tone almost hiding the way his voice broke over the word.

The sound made guilt claw   
at Rodney's stomach, but he refused to give in. There was no way John got to be   
righteously indignant about this, not given his past history. "Well, you can   
hardly blame me for jumping to that conclusion! It wouldn't be the first time,"   
Rodney whispered angrily, his voice a low hiss in the dark.

Rodney couldn't see John,   
but he pictured him standing there, arms crossed and spine rigid, his eyes   
flashing in the dark. "Fuck you," John snarled.

"I seem to recall it was   
the other way around," Rodney said with a sneer. Rodney, despite his carefully   
cultivated reputation, was rarely actually _mean._ But give him a little   
taste of vengeance and he could be downright vicious. He'd struck a nerve, and   
he wasn't about to let it go. "Though I'm sure it was a noble sacrifice on your   
part. Sorry it doesn't seem to be working out the way you planned."

"You son of a bitch! It   
wasn't like that, and you know it!" John hissed back, the hint of a plea buried   
in the words, like this should be something Rodney could understand if he just   
looked hard enough.

"So what was it, then? A   
pity fuck? A job perk? _What?_" Rodney asked, because he needed to know.   
Once he knew what their night together had been about, he was sure he'd be able   
to get over it. He could deal with it then, categorize it, put it in its proper   
perspective. He wouldn't have it constantly nagging at the back of his mind like   
a stubborn itch, persistent thoughts sneaking out of his subconscious and   
telling him it wasn't all an act, it couldn't be. It had felt so _real._   
Some small part of it had to have been true.

"Dammit, McKay!" John   
shouted as soon as the question passed Rodney's lips, the sound cutting through   
the heated quiet of before. Rodney instantly found himself shoved backward into   
the refrigerator, magnets clattering to the ground at the jolt. He was lost in   
the darkness, but he could feel John's hands digging into his biceps, his body   
held in place by John's weight, John's ragged breath on his face. He felt his   
body react, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. He   
felt ridiculous for still wanting this, but at least he knew he wasn't alone.

John's hands had gone soft   
on Rodney's arms, and his body held none of the tense energy it had radiated   
just seconds before. He was soft and warm against Rodney's chest, and Rodney   
could feel his shallow breathing and thundering heartbeat. Rodney felt the   
darkness shift, and he could just make out the barest hint of light shining in   
John's dark eyes. If he could see John's face, Rodney suspected he would see his   
own astonishment reflected back at him at this turn of events. Long seconds hung   
between them, and then John's quiet voice broke the silence. "It was this," John   
answered, soft breath ghosting over Rodney's lips just before their mouths met   
with surprising gentleness.

There was no defense   
against the way Rodney's body took over, melting into John's like he belonged   
there, arms circling John's waist. John's lips were tangy and sweet from the   
juice, and Rodney felt his own lips tingle at the touch. This kiss was nothing   
like the deep, passionate ones they'd shared before, mouths hungrily devouring   
each other. This one was chaste and a little unsure, hesitantly licking at the   
seams of each other's lips as if they were just learning each other for the   
first time. 

When they pulled away,   
Rodney was a little breathless. He had to swallow hard past the tightness of his   
throat, and his tongue felt too thick to form words. "Rodney, I…I'm not going   
anywhere," John said. "You know that, right?"

Rodney thought that maybe   
he was starting to get it, but just to be sure he slid his hand up the back of   
John's neck and pulled John down for another kiss. He felt John's mouth open   
under his, letting Rodney explore, delve in deep with his tongue and learn   
John's taste. Rodney's lips felt swollen and clumsy against John's, and it was   
getting harder and harder to suck air into his lungs. There was a strange,   
familiar tickle at the back of his throat, but Rodney struggled to place it,   
still too focused on the feeling of John's hands on his body, the sweet taste of   
his lips…

As soon as realization   
struck, Rodney all but shoved John away. Now he could feel it, the itching   
tightness of his throat, the failure of his lungs to fill to more than half   
their normal capacity. "John," he wheezed into the dark, "Get my Epipen."

"Huh? Why?" John asked,   
confused.

"What kind of juice did you   
drink?" Rodney's voice was sharp and rough.

"Oh, god," John gasped. "_Orange_."

Then the room was flooded   
with light, and Rodney caught a glimpse of the pale horror on John's face before   
he had to blink against the brightness.

~~~

"Is everything alright   
here?" Sam said, taking her hand off the light switch and wrapping her pink robe   
tighter around her body. "You guys are making quite a racket."

John stood frozen for   
another half a second, a _precious half second_, before he scrambled   
desperately back to the spare bedroom. He grabbed his bag and raced back to the   
kitchen, digging through it as he ran. His fingers closed around the case at the   
same moment his sock-clad feet hit the linoleum, and he half slid half lowered   
himself to the ground. He practically skidding across the floor to where Rodney   
lay against the refrigerator, red-faced and clawing at his neck while Sam stood   
by helplessly. John stabbed the needle into Rodney's thigh through his   
sweatpants, barely taking time to suck in a breath before he said, "We need to   
call an ambulance, _now!_"

"Forget the ambulance,"   
Jack said, pulling on a shirt. "How about a police escort to the hospital?"

~~~

John helped Rodney into the   
backseat of Jack's Taurus, laying lengthwise in the seat and cradling Rodney   
between his legs, holding him upright. Rodney's back was to John's chest, and   
John couldn't tell if the frantic heartbeat he felt was Rodney's or his own.   
Jack sped through traffic, lights flashing and siren wailing, drowning out   
whatever he was saying into the radio.

The epinephrine had bought   
them time, but Rodney was still wheezing painfully with each shallow breath.   
John brushed the hair back from his sweaty forehead and whispered comforting   
nonsense into Rodney's ear, interspersed with frantic demands to go faster   
directed at Jack. He had no idea what he was saying, but he just needed to keep   
talking. He doubted Rodney could hear it over the sirens anyway.

Rodney had been fearfully   
clutching John's thighs since the moment they'd left for the hospital, digging   
his fingertips hard into John's skin. It had been a painful but welcome reminder   
that Rodney was still conscious and fighting for breath, but suddenly his   
fingers went lax on John's thighs and the breaths that John had been counting   
stopped. John had never felt more terrified in his life as he did at that   
moment. He squeezed Rodney's hand tight, trying to get him to wake up, begging   
and pleading and cursing Rodney when he didn't respond. He was distantly aware   
that he was chanting, "No, no, please god, no," into the back of Rodney's neck,   
because he was pretty sure that if Rodney didn't wake up he was going to lose it   
completely.

The car screeched to a stop   
at the hospital emergency entrance, and John could have gladly kissed every   
single person who was waiting there to load Rodney onto the stretcher. They were   
already intubating Rodney before they'd even wheeled him inside, and John moved   
to follow before he felt a restraining hand strong on his arm. Jack held him in   
place with a firm, "Let them do their job." John nodded reluctantly and watched   
with clenched fists as they took Rodney away. The panic ebbed a little, and when   
he felt like he could talk without sounding like a gibbering idiot, he turned to   
Jack and said, "Look, thanks for everything, but you've got to go. I can't   
explain it, but it's not safe for you here. There are people—"

Jack held John's bag out to   
him and cut him off with a silencing gesture. "Save it," he said curtly. "I   
already know."

John swallowed hard, then   
said, "They might come after you and Sam."

Jack nodded and made his   
way back towards the car. "We'll be fine. Sam's a lot tougher than she looks,"   
he called casually over his shoulder, and then he got in the car. John didn't   
see him drive away, because he was already headed into the building for news on   
Rodney.

~~~

An hour later, John figured   
he must look about as horrible as he felt, because nurses kept bringing him   
coffee, but never any information on how Rodney was doing. So now he was jittery  
_and_ guilty, convinced that Kolya's men would show up at any second   
because John had been stupid and panicky enough to give the receptionist   
Rodney's actual name, and as soon as it was entered into the system he was sure   
they'd be tipped off somehow. It was only a matter of time before they got here,   
and John needed to get Rodney somewhere safe, but first he had to make sure   
Rodney was okay.

Of course, Rodney wouldn't   
even be here in the first place if John could learn to manage his out of control   
libido where Rodney was concerned. Death by kissing. Why did that seem to make   
some kind of insane sense given everything else John had put Rodney through?

John hung his head between   
his hands and leaned over in the chair the nurses had forced him into once they   
had gotten sick of his pacing. He stared at the floor between his feet, counting   
the flecks in the tile and wallowing in his guilt. John felt like this was all   
his fault. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that if he hadn't taken   
the job, Kolya would have just hired somebody else, and if that happened Rodney   
would probably be dead right now. But that didn't help alleviate the sense that   
John had gotten in too deep with Rodney, and now he was paying the price for   
John's colossal fuck up. Once he was sure Rodney was safe, he was going to do   
him a big fat favor and stay as far the hell away as possible.

A cup of coffee floated   
into the edge of John's vision, but he didn't look up. He waved away the nurse,   
muttering, "No, no more coffee. Non plus de café, merci."

When his answer was a   
cleared throat and a rather hesitant female voice saying, "Monsieur Smith?" his   
head snapped up. The tiny woman had curly brown hair and a cherub face behind   
her square black glasses. She smiled sweetly up at John and said, "My name is   
Dr. Diane Hughes. I just finished up with Rodney, and I wanted to let you know   
he's doing just fine."

John let out a breath he   
didn't even know he'd been holding and felt some of the tension leave his   
shoulders. "Good, that's good," he said. "When can I check him out of here?"

She frowned   
sympathetically. "We have to keep him under observation for at least another   
three hours, just to make sure there's no recurring symptoms or complications.   
He's in recovery right now, but you should be able to see him soon." John   
grimaced at that, and she placed a comforting hand on his arm. "I promise, your   
partner's going to be fine. You'll be able to take him home in no time."

"Oh, no, he's not my—" Dr.   
Hughes raised a skeptical eyebrow before John's protest was even halfway out,   
and he figured there was no use arguing. "How'd you guess?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose   
thoughtfully and said, "Well, it's kind of obvious. The only person I worry   
about like that is my husband." She smiled again and gave John's arm a   
reassuring squeeze, then turned to leave. John stared after her for a minute,   
wondering why he really didn't have more of a reaction to being called Rodney's

_wife_.

The doctor had been gone   
for all of fifteen seconds before John decided he'd had enough of the whole   
waiting thing. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and wandered outside to   
get better reception. The sky had started to take on the hazy blue and grey   
tones that came just before the red and gold sunrise, but John could still see a   
few stars stubbornly hanging on to the last remnants of the night. John leaned   
against the side of the building, thumbing codes into his phone until he located   
the server for the   
Paris hospital. He had just   
hacked into the patient files when movement at the building entrance caught his   
eye.

 

Two of the men didn't look   
familiar, but he recognized Ladon immediately. John's pulse rate tripled and he   
quickly made his way back around to the entrance, hovering just outside the   
doors of reception. He knew exactly what Ladon would be looking for, and he had   
to act fast.

John hurried to locate   
Rodney's file in the system. He found it just as he heard Ladon ask for Rodney   
by name at the reception desk. He only had seconds to pull this off. A few quick   
keystrokes, and voila, the 14 became a 54.

"Rodney McKay, cela est   
cinquante-quatre de pièce," the receptionist smiled helpfully and pointed   
towards the elevator. "Le cinquième plancher, en bas le hall à votre gauche."

Ladon smiled and nodded   
respectfully. "Merci," he said, and John watched until the elevator went all the   
way up to the fifth floor before he ducked back inside and started heading   
towards room 14.

He didn't get far before he   
realized that if he kept wandering around in sweatpants and a t-shirt, sooner or   
later somebody would stop to ask questions and figure out he was trying to worm   
his way into places he shouldn't be. He needed to blend in. As soon as he passed   
a supply closet near the elevator, he ducked inside and grabbed a set of scrubs   
from the shelf, then stashed his bag in a corner near the saline. Hopefully,   
with any luck no one would realize he didn't have a security badge and he could   
work his way through the halls unnoticed.

John's luck held, and he   
found room 14 without incident. There was a nurse inside taking Rodney's vitals,   
and John's heart soared when he heard Rodney tell her she wouldn't know how to   
take a blood pressure reading to save her soul, because he was borderline   
hypertensive and if that machine said he was 80/65 then it was just wrong. She   
finally left the room in a snit, muttering something under her breath that made   
John very thankful he didn't know much French.

"I see you can piss people   
of no matter what the language, McKay," John smiled, stepping into the room.   
Rodney was pale and the area around his lips still seemed a little puffy, but   
John had never been more happy to see anyone in his entire life.

"John?" Rodney called, his   
voice still a little hoarse. "How did you get in here?"

"I snuck in," John   
shrugged, coming to stand by Rodney's bed. He didn't take Rodney's hand, but he   
plucked at the sheets next to Rodney's fingers. "How're you feeling?"

Rodney gave John a brief,   
quizzical look, then rolled his eyes. "I'm fine," he said, the 'obviously,'   
heavily implied. When John just shook his head and rolled his own eyes in   
return, Rodney moved his hand to rest on the back of John's fingertips, stilling   
his nervous movements. "Really, I'm fine," he said again, this time holding   
John's gaze. They stayed like that, hands barely touching, just looking at each   
other, for several long seconds. The touch was casual and light, but as the   
seconds stretched it began to feel almost too intimate for public, and John had   
to look away. Rodney cleared his throat lightly and said, "Anyway, the doctors   
tell me that if I don't have a relapse, I'll be out of here in a few hours, so—"

"Yeah, about that," John   
interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck. This was the perfect example of why   
he needed to remember to check his hormones at the door. He'd gotten so wrapped   
up in just being near Rodney that he'd nearly forgotten the reason he'd been   
hunting Rodney down in the first place. "We kinda need to make a run for it.   
Kolya's men are here looking for you. I managed to send them on a wild goose   
chase, but that won't hold them off for long," he said.

Rodney paled a little, but   
gave no other sign that he knew the danger headed their way. John hated himself   
a little for putting Rodney in a position where he was somehow becoming   
accustomed to running for his life. "Right. So, what are we waiting for?" Rodney   
said, making his way out of the bed. No sooner had he risen to his feet than he   
swayed a little where he stood and put a hand to his head. John only had a split   
second warning before Rodney's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed   
into Rodney's arms, unconscious.

~~~

Rodney came back to find   
himself cradled against John's chest, John's fingers in his hair. "Hey, welcome   
back," John said with a smile, though his voice had a nervous edge to it.

"What happened?" Rodney   
asked.

"You fainted," John   
answered. "Just for a few seconds. I think it had something to do with your low   
blood pressure from the allergic reaction."

Rodney groaned. "There has   
to be a better word for it."

"Would you prefer if I said   
you swooned into my arms?" John asked with a smirk. "Because you pretty much   
did."

"I did not _swoon_,"

Rodney protested automatically, but John didn't pay much attention. He propped   
Rodney's slightly tipsy form against the bed and ducked into the hall for a few   
seconds, then came back with a wheelchair in tow. "Oh, you've got to be kidding   
me!" Rodney cried. "I can walk fine, I just need to get my bearings."

"We don't have time for you   
to argue with me on this, Rodney. We'll attract too much attention if you're   
falling all over yourself out there. Now shut up and get in the chair," John   
commanded. Rodney grumpily complied, and they had almost made it to the elevator   
before he heard John mutter a curse and turn back around the way they came.

"What?" Rodney asked.

"One of Kolya's thugs is   
guarding the elevator. I saw him earlier when he entered the building. Looks   
like we're going to have to take the stairs," John said. "Think you can walk?"

Rodney nodded silently, and   
when they reached the end of the hall John pulled the wheelchair to a stop.   
Rodney felt John's hand on his shoulder before he could spring up, and John   
muttered, "Easy, buddy," in an incredibly infuriating drawl. He slowly helped   
Rodney to his feet, and then they made their way into the stairwell.

They had only gone down one   
flight before they heard steps coming up towards them, and John quickly ducked   
out into the hallway. He kept one hand on Rodney's elbow as they walked, tense   
and ready to brace Rodney if he passed out again. When they reached the   
elevators, John used his hand on Rodney's elbow to pull him back against the   
wall, out of sight. John peered around the corner to scan the area, and   
apparently it was clear because the next thing Rodney knew he was being dragged   
towards the elevators, John close at his side.

It all seemed too easy, and   
that really should have been Rodney's first clue that things were about to go   
horribly, dreadfully wrong. John had just pressed the call button for the   
elevator when Rodney heard a cold voice to his left accompanied by the   
unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. "Ah, Dr. McKay. So nice of you to   
finally join us."

Rodney knew who it was   
without ever having heard the voice before. He felt like ice water had been   
poured down his spine and John stiffened beside him. Rodney's entire body broke   
out in a cold sweat and started trembling, but slowly he turned to face a man   
with empty eyes and a chilling smile. "You must be Kolya," he said, trying not   
to let his voice waver.

Kolya nodded in greeting.   
"It's a pleasure to meet the man who's been such an inspiration to my own work."

"Whatever you wanted my   
work for, I hardly think you could consider it an inspiration," Rodney said,   
trying to buy some time. Because John would figure something out, he was sure of   
it, they just needed more time.

"Oh, I think you'd be   
surprised at how similar we are in our goals," Kolya said reasonably. "We both   
want power, Dr. McKay. We may want it in different forms, but we both want it   
all the same."

He felt John move to his   
side and knew John would try to step in, to use himself as a barrier between   
himself and Kolya. He latched on to John's wrist, holding him in place. He felt   
rather than saw John's tense frown, but he made no additional move to put   
himself in harm's way.

"So what are you going to   
do, threaten to blow up everyone on Earth unless they elect you Emperor of the   
World?"

Kolya chuckled, and the   
sound made Rodney's skin crawl. "Nothing quite so brash, Dr. McKay. History has   
shown that political leaders are merely figureheads, pawns at the mercy of   
popular opinion. The real power lies in the men with the strength to act, with   
their hand on the button that controls life and death, and the ability to grant   
either in the interest of the greater good. It is regretful that in most cases a   
demonstration of that power is often necessary before it's taken seriously, and   
that innocent lives must be lost to bring order to the chaos, but it's the price   
of war."

"You're insane," Rodney   
breathed, and he distantly heard the ding of the elevator arriving. He felt   
John's hand tighten on his shoulder in warning.

Kolya's expression   
darkened. "You are truly a brilliant scientist, Dr. McKay. It's a shame to have   
to kill you." Rodney watched with a sort of detached interest as Kolya raised   
the gun and pointed it at Rodney's head. Rodney stared down the barrel with a   
kind of sick fascination. He watched Kolya's finger tighten on the trigger as if   
in slow motion, and though Rodney would have liked to think he'd face his own   
death with his eyes open, he found himself shutting them tight against it and   
tensing his entire body for the shot he'd probably never live to hear.

The next thing he knew,   
something warm and solid was knocking Rodney sideways at the same moment as a   
deafening shot rang out in the air. Rodney's body landed on the floor of the   
elevator and he opened his eyes just in time to see the doors close behind him.   
John was on top of him, and he rolled off with a strangled groan and pressed the   
button for the ground level. Rodney was still dizzily trying to process what had   
just happened when he realized John was slumped against the wall, clutching his   
left shoulder, and something red was oozing between his fingers.

"Oh my god, you're shot!"

John gave him a look. "I   
noticed."

"You're shot!" Rodney said   
again, and he distantly thought that maybe he was freaking out a little.

"There's a hole in your body and you're bleeding and you're just standing there!  
_Why are you just standing there?_ You need a doctor!"

John gave him another look   
that Rodney guessed may have had something to do with the fact that they were   
still riding the elevator to the first floor, then said, "I've had worse."

"You've _what?_"   
Rodney squawked, wide-eyed. Before John could answer, the elevator doors opened   
and he pulled Rodney out into the hallway. He seemed to know where they were   
headed, so Rodney followed blindly when John led them into a storage room just   
down the hall. John locked the door with bloody fingers and started digging in   
the corner, unearthing his bag from where Rodney presumed he'd hidden it   
earlier. Rodney's brain was still in shock over the fact that John had taken a   
bullet for him, so he felt it was excusable that it took him a good thirty   
seconds before he realized that they were in a room full of medical supplies.   
Grabbing a large roll of gauze bandages off the nearest shelf, Rodney laid a   
hand on John's chest just as he was headed for the door. "Sit," he commanded.

John blinked at him.

"Rodney, we don't have time to—"

"You're _bleeding to   
death_, John," Rodney shouted angrily, finding a measure of solace in his   
frustration. "Sit down."

John looked like he was   
seriously considering arguing, but then with a furious grunt he gave in. "We   
only have time for a pressure bandage," he said. "It won't take them long to   
figure out where we are."

Rodney did as instructed,   
wrapping the gauze under John's armpit and around his shoulder, trying in vain   
not to notice the way John went startlingly pale and clenched his jaw so hard   
against the pain that Rodney thought his teeth might crack. Rodney tied off the   
gauze in a tight knot, but then didn't let John move. "What am I going to need   
to fix your shoulder?"

"Rodney," John ground out   
dangerously.

Rodney just grabbed John's   
bag and held it open. "You've been shot before, so don't try to tell me you   
don't know." 

John gave Rodney a look   
like he was about to punch Rodney and drag him out of there with his one good   
arm, but then rattled off a list of supplies. "Gauze, saline, syringes if they   
have any." Rodney quickly grabbed the supplies and shoved them in the bag.

"Okay," Rodney said,   
satisfied. "Now we can go."

John rolled his eyes but   
quickly headed out of the room, making a beeline for the nearest side exit. As   
the made their way out of the building, Rodney could see the orange sun just   
beginning to break over the horizon. He sent a quick look over his shoulder just   
to make sure no one was following them, then grumbled, "You've got to be the   
only idiot who gets shot and then tries to get _out_ of the hospital."

~~~

John knew that most of the   
city was still sleeping, so there weren't too many people to witness their   
escape. They made their way through alleys and side streets, trying to keep to   
the shadows as much as possible. Several blocks from the hospital, they came to   
an ancient looking house with boarded up windows. The sign on the door read,   
"Closed for renovations. –The Paris Historical Preservation Society." The front   
door was locked, but the wood was rotting around the frame so it didn't take   
much force for Rodney to kick open the door. He hauled John inside, past the   
sparse furniture covered with protective drapes, and stumbled towards the   
bathroom. With a grunt, he deposited John on top of the toilet lid and dropped   
the bag, immediately crouching beside it to rummage through their supplies with   
bloody, sticky fingers. At some point he had started muttering to himself, a   
long string of words that John couldn't make out, but he was sure he caught   
several "oh god"s along with the occasional "suicidal idiot" thrown in for good   
measure.

"Rodney, hey, I need you to   
focus," John said, forcing his voice to sound calm despite the searing pain in   
his shoulder. He planned to talk Rodney through treating his wound, but he   
couldn't do that if Rodney's mind was flying in seventeen different directions   
at once. Rodney ignored him and began fumbling with a bag of gauze. John noticed   
his hands were shaking. Reaching out with his good arm he caught Rodney's wrist,   
even though that movement made the pain flare. "Rodney," he tried again.

Rodney stilled and looked   
up at John with worried blue eyes. "You're shot," he said unnecessarily. He was   
beginning to sound like a broken record. "You took a bullet for me."

John ducked his head. He   
had gotten lucky. The bullet was small caliber, and it had passed clean through   
the more fleshy part of John's shoulder without managing to knick any major   
nerves or arteries. Still, that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt like a motherfucker   
when Rodney treated it, or that it was any less dangerous than a shot to the   
chest from a high powered rifle. Dying slowly from internal bleeding and   
infection was just as messy and painful as dying of rapid blood loss. "Look,   
Rodney, it was no big deal…"

"No big deal?" Rodney said,   
and his voice had a disbelieving quality that made John fleetingly wonder if he   
could hope for a grateful kiss. Wasn't that how these sort of things usually   
went in movies? But Rodney wasn't your typical damsel in distress and his next   
words hastily shut down that line of thought. "I've never seen anybody do   
something that incredibly stupid! And I work with _undergrads!_" He plowed   
on, thankfully not noting John's crestfallen expression. "Is it genetic? Were   
you born without a self-preservation instinct, or is it just some sort of   
masochistic tendency you developed to act out every stupidly heroic impulse that   
flits through your brain?"

John felt the muscles in   
his jaw twitch. "Fine, I'm sorry. Next time, you can do something 'stupidly   
heroic' and I can yell at you for saving my life."

"Next time?" Rodney said,   
voice rising in pitch. "_Next time?_ How many chances do you plan on giving   
them to kill you, Sheppard?"

"Well what do you expect me   
to do, Rodney? Let them kill _you?_"

"Of course not! But if you   
die I wouldn't—I can't—_John_—" Rodney's voice faltered and broke, and John   
felt his anger immediately dissipate. Rodney's eyes were wide and terrified.

John once again reached for   
Rodney's wrist, barely registering the pain the gesture brought. "Hey," he said   
softly. "I'll be okay."

John watched a myriad of   
thoughts pass through Rodney's brain and register on his face. When he finally   
spoke, he said, "Don't ever scare me like that again, or so help me the next   
time you almost die I'll make you wish you had."

John resisted the urge to   
smile. "Well, you scared me first," he said, channeling his inner ten-year-old.   
"But if you take care of this whole shoulder thing, I might call it even."

"I…I don't know what to   
do," Rodney said, voice small, as if the admission caused him physical pain.

There was a small drop of   
blood on Rodney's cheek. John wanted to reach out to wipe it away, but his hands   
were covered in blood. "The first thing I think we need to do is get cleaned   
up."

Rodney nodded once, a   
distracted sort of movement, before he made his way to the sink. When the tap   
came to life, John sent up a brief prayer of thanks to the plumbing gods that   
the archaic pipes hadn't disintegrated and they had running water. Rodney washed   
the blood from his hands and then grabbed a cloth from the shelf. He shoved it   
under the stream, got it wet, and then came back to kneel at John's feet. The   
damp cloth was warm on John's hands as Rodney wiped away the blood. He worked   
the cloth over John's palms, each bony knuckle, even the soft skin between   
John's fingers, with single-minded determination and surprising gentleness, but   
he never looked at John. In fact, he seemed to resolutely avoid John's eyes.   
John found himself both disappointed and thankful, because he knew that if   
Rodney looked at him right now he'd be able to see everything John was feeling   
written plainly across his face, and John wasn't sure how Rodney would react   
when he saw clear evidence of what Rodney did to him.

Once Rodney had cleaned   
John's hands, he set the cloth aside and took the small pocketknife from John's   
bag. He moved to cut away John's ruined shirt, and every little brush of   
Rodney's fingertips against John's skin was a moment John stored away in his   
mind to savor later, when he wasn't stoically pushing through the pain and   
slowly bleeding onto the chipped tile floor. Still, John couldn't help watching   
Rodney's face the entire time, as he carefully cut a strip up the middle of   
John's shirt with a look of grim concentration. He was so close John could feel   
him radiating heat, and he tried to dredge up the memory of Rodney's cologne, to   
pick out the scent hidden under the coppery tang of his own blood. He almost   
stifled the grunt of pain as Rodney unwrapped the bandage on his shoulder, but   
Rodney's apologetic look told him he'd heard it anyway. John thought that he   
probably should have had Rodney administer the morphine John kept stashed in his   
bag first to dull the pain, but John needed to stay alert enough to talk Rodney   
through the procedure, and he couldn't do that if he was loopy on pain meds.

Rodney finally peeled the   
blood-soaked shirt away from John's skin, then tossed it into the sink and   
picked up the damp cloth. He began to gently clean the dried blood away from the   
wound, but even that small bit of pressure had lights exploding behind John's   
eyelids and he clenched his jaw against the yelps of pain threatening to escape.   
He consoled himself with the knowledge that the wound was already partially   
clotted, since he only felt the warmth of small trickles of blood running down   
his chest and back.

Rodney was staring with a   
haunted expression at the blood seeping from the hole in John's shoulder, so   
John attempted to reassure him. "Okay, you did good buddy," he said, hoping his   
voice didn't sound as shaky as he thought it did. "Do you have all the supplies   
ready?"

Rodney looked over the   
supplies spread out on the gritty tile floor. "Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, I think   
so."

John looked them over,   
satisfied, then said, "I need you to get one more thing out of my bag. There   
should be a small Ziploc in the bottom with a few supplies I keep around   
for…emergencies."

"A first aid kit?" Rodney   
brightened, shoving a hand into John's bag.

"Sort of," John hedged,   
then watched Rodney's face fall when he saw the contents of the bag. There was a   
well worn suture kit but no thread, a few ratty pieces of gauze, a handful of   
nearly expired antibiotics, and a small glass bottle filled with only a tiny   
amount of clear liquid.

"Oh my god," Rodney   
groaned, reading the label on the bottle. "You have insulin, but you don't even   
have band-aids?"

"That's not insulin," John   
muttered, not quite meeting Rodney's eyes. "It's morphine."

John could actually feel   
Rodney's eyes widen without having to see them. "John, why do you have _  
morphine_ in your bag?"

"Because it beats having to   
bite a stick in situations like this," John replied, tone flat.

Rodney eyed the bottle   
suspiciously. "It's nearly empty," Rodney said, stunned. "How often do you get   
shot?"

"Can we get back to the   
part where you plug up the hole in my shoulder?" John snapped a little too   
defensively. "You need to irrigate the wound. Grab the saline bag," he   
commanded. Rodney scowled but dutifully picked up the plastic pouch full of   
saline solution with the IV tube attached. "Pinch the tube about halfway down   
and cut it."

Rodney used the pocketknife   
to cut the hose, but it was still slippery with blood from John's t-shirt and   
Rodney's hands were still shaking a little, so it took a couple of tries. When   
he had the tube cut, he held it up to keep the solution from leaking out and   
said, "Okay, now what?"

John frowned. Rodney wasn't   
going to like the next part any more than John was. "Now stick the tube in my   
shoulder and squeeze the bag until you've flushed the wound."

Rodney paled. "Won't that   
hurt?"

"Not as much as the next   
part," John answered weakly. "Just do it, McKay."

Rodney swallowed hard, and   
John clenched his teeth around a groan when Rodney pushed the tube into the hole   
in John's shoulder. John felt the wound fill with fluid as Rodney pushed saline   
into the wound tract, and it burned like lava as it poured back out the hole and   
down his skin in a pale pink stream. The same procedure was repeated on the exit   
wound in John's back, and once the wound was clean Rodney sat back, looking   
green and shaky. "If you need to puke, do it in the bathtub," John said, his   
voice unsteady and drained. "I'm not moving."

Rodney's sick look turned   
into a mock glare. "Right. Just go ahead and sit on you ass while I do all the   
work," he grumbled half-heartedly, and John felt some of the tension ease in his   
chest. If Rodney was being bitchy, then everything would be okay, even though   
John suspected he was just putting on a brave face. John had to admit, Rodney   
was handling this better than John had, the first time he'd had to dress a   
gunshot wound on the battlefield.

John waited until he felt   
like his own breathing had steadied somewhat. He was dreading the next and final   
step. "Okay, now get out the gauze and roll it lengthwise, as tight as you can."   
Rodney did as instructed, and John felt his body tense in anticipation of the   
pain he knew was coming. "Good," he said. "Now stuff the gauze as far into the   
bullet hole as it'll go."

Rodney's eyes got wide and   
for a moment John thought he was going to refuse. Then he blinked and his   
expression changed, giving John an unreadable look as he braced one hand on   
John's good shoulder. The next thing John knew was nothing but blinding,   
excruciating pain exploding from his shoulder. He felt moisture gather behind   
his tightly shut eyelids and he couldn't stop the strangled scream that forced   
itself from his throat. When it passed, John sucked in gulping breaths and felt   
the throbbing ache deep in his shoulder. In the grey edges of his peripheral   
vision he could see there was a small bit of the gauze still poking out of his   
shoulder.

"Okay, I don't ever want to   
do that again," Rodney said sincerely.

John felt his lips twist   
into a pained grimace. "There's still the back," he said flatly.

"Oh, _fuck_," Rodney   
said, a little hysterical as he reached for a second piece of gauze.

The second time was better,   
though John didn't know if it was because he was starting to go into shock or if   
he was just that comforted by Rodney chanting, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" as he   
pushed the gauze into John's shoulder. When it was done, John felt his body   
trembling and decided that now might be a good time for some serious pain meds.

"Morphine," he ground out   
through clenched teeth. "One cc."

If John had thought it was   
impossible for Rodney's eyes to get wider, he was proven wrong. "_Now_ you   
want the morphine?"

"_McKay!_"

"Right, yes, morphine, one   
cc," he rattled off as he got out the syringe and bottle. There was barely   
enough liquid to fill the syringe, but as soon as Rodney injected it into John's   
arm, John felt it working, carrying the pain away in a blissful haze. And oh,   
wow, when John got home he was writing a really long thank you note to whatever   
genius had invented morphine. Although now that he thought about it, he was   
pretty sure the guy was probably dead. Strangely enough, that might not be much   
of a problem. If things kept going as splendidly as they had been up to this   
point, John might be able to thank the guy in person before the week was out.

"See?" John muttered with   
false cheer. "That wasn't so bad." He couldn't help but smile as Rodney snorted   
derisively in answer.

He had Rodney tie a   
pressure bandage around the wound and then feed him two antibiotics. After he   
swallowed them down with tap water he made sure to smash the morphine bottle in   
the tub. Rodney, of course, was Not Pleased, but it was nearly empty anyway and   
John wasn't going to be responsible for some kid getting a hold of it if they   
had to make a hasty exit and the bottle got left behind.

John slung his good arm   
around Rodney's shoulders as Rodney all but carried him up the stairs. His limbs   
felt weak and heavy, and he was starting to feel cold everywhere but the places   
his body touched Rodney's. When they found a bedroom, Rodney pulled the   
protective cover off the bed and tugged down the blankets, then gently lowered   
John to the bed. John was in heaven the moment he crawled under the slightly   
musty-smelling sheets, and when he felt Rodney crawl in behind him it was even   
better. John rolled towards Rodney, as if pulled towards his heat by a force   
greater than gravity. Rodney didn't even seem to think about it as he pulled   
John to his chest and tucked the covers around them. John went willingly, the   
morphine making his muscles relaxed and loose as he curled himself against   
Rodney's body, suddenly craving the warmth and closeness. John cradled his   
injured arm between their bodies and felt Rodney's heart beat against his cheek.   
He drifted pleasantly for a while, edging towards sleep on a morphine-induced   
haze, but then Rodney's arms tightened around him as he whispered quietly into   
John's hair, "It's just my luck I'd wind up falling for a suicidal idiot." John   
didn't know if the words were meant for him or if Rodney was simply talking to   
himself again, but however they were meant, John had heard them all the same,   
and they did funny things to his heart.

It suddenly hit him, how   
very close they'd both come to death. Kolya would have shot Rodney if John   
hadn't stepped in, and Rodney had nearly died in John's arms in the backseat of   
a Taurus. They'd been fighting before but now John couldn't remember why and it   
all seemed so _stupid_. "Rodney," he said, very sincerely, as he looked up   
and struggled to focus on blue eyes. "_Rodney_," he said again, because he   
didn't know how to say what he really wanted to, so he just pulled Rodney into a   
sloppy kiss.

~~~

John's lips were like soft   
silk against Rodney's skin, warm and pliant and tangible proof that they were   
alive. So much had happened in the last few hours to leave Rodney drained and on   
edge, and it would be so easy to just give in to the reassurance John was   
offering. But John was drugged out of his mind and in pain, and Rodney still   
wasn't fully recovered from his own ordeal, so clearly they were both insane to   
even be considering this. Gently, he tried to push John away, but John just let   
out a small mewl of protest and resumed trying to suck a hickey on Rodney's   
neck. Rodney tried again, this time more firmly, and said, "John, stop."

John looked up at him with   
dark, glassy eyes. "Why?" he asked, sounding like a petulant child.

"Because you're high as a   
kite right now, and you've got a gaping gunshot would in your shoulder," he said   
sensibly. John ignored him and once again pressed in close, currently immune to   
things like logic.

"'M good," John insisted   
into Rodney's neck. "Can't feel a thing. Ready to go," he added with a small   
thrust of his hips, and apparently John hadn't lost _that_ much blood if he   
was still able to get that hard after only a few seconds of kissing. 

"John," Rodney tried again,   
"that's just the morphine talking."

"No, 's not," John mumbled,   
nosing at the hollow between Rodney's collarbones. "Want you. Want you all the   
time. Even when you're an ass. Especially then."

"Really?" Rodney asked,   
then hated himself for sounding so surprised. Still, he couldn't hold back his   
curiosity, so he asked suspiciously, "Why?"

John pulled back to look at   
him. "Because you're real," he said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the   
world, even though it made no sense. Rodney reminded himself that in John's   
current state he really couldn't expect coherence, but then John added, "And   
when I'm with you, I'm real too."

Rodney's mouth went dry. He   
knew John wouldn't have said it if not for the drugs in his system, but it was   
the most amazing thing anyone had ever said to him, and he really didn't think   
he could be blamed for the way it made his heart lurch and stutter in his chest.   
He couldn't form words, could barely even think, so he leaned over and pressed   
his lips to John's in a soft kiss.

John responded with a   
greedy moan and wrapped his leg around Rodney's, trying to press every inch of   
their bodies together. Their cocks brushed through their clothes and Rodney felt   
a fiery shiver run up his spine. He slipped on hand down the back of John's   
pants and palmed his ass, grinding their hips together hard. John's hands began   
tugging at Rodney's shirt before he hissed in pain and curled against Rodney's   
body, clutching his shoulder.

Rodney kissed him through   
it, wondering how bad that movement would have hurt if John didn't have morphine   
in his system. Gently, he rolled John onto his back. "Relax," he whispered   
against John's lips. "Let me do this."

Rodney sat up long enough   
to pull his shirt over his head and John looked up at him with smiling eyes.   
"Just lie back and let you do all the work?" he teased.

Rodney smiled and leaned   
back in for another kiss, then let his hand drift to the waistband of John's   
pants. "Something like that," he said.

~~~

John was still wearing the   
scrub pants from the hospital, and he felt Rodney push them down, just past his   
hips, then do the same to himself. It was just enough room to pull John's aching   
cock from his pants and line it up with Rodney's own erection. Rodney wrapped   
one strong hand around both the heads and thrust a little, and John felt like   
every nerve in his body was hardwired to that one sensitive spot where their   
cocks touched. He squirmed and wrapped his one good hand around the shafts just   
below Rodney's grip, unable to stop the helpless thrust of his hips, desperate   
to feel Rodney's cock slide against his own. Rodney dragged his thumb over the   
heads, spreading the precome and making John writhe beneath him. He worked out a   
rhythm in counterpoint to John's thrusts and continued kissing John's panting   
mouth, and John thought that maybe Rodney was the most coordinated person in the  
_world_.

John felt like every inch   
of his skin was ten times more sensitive than normal. He could feel every detail   
of Rodney's body against him, each fine tickle of hair on his chest or rough   
brush of calloused fingertips on his cock, and it was beautiful and perfect and   
intense. He arched up into Rodney's mouth, practically swallowing Rodney's   
tongue in his attempt to open up, to give Rodney everything he had and more. He   
was desperate for Rodney to know, to _understand_ the things he did to John   
that John didn't even understand himself. There were no words to describe the   
way he made John feel, only mouths and hands and strangled moans that made   
John's heart shudder against his ribcage.

"John," Rodney gasped the   
name against the fluttering pulse of John's neck and came, hot fluid spilling   
across John's stomach and nearly scalding his skin. John whimpered urgently and   
began thrusting harder against the slick heat of Rodney's cock. Rodney slid his   
hands through the come and sweat on John's stomach then wrapped his wet fist   
tight around John's cock, and John's blood was on fire as he threw his head back   
and began frantically pushing into Rodney's slick hand. Rodney chanted John's   
name into his neck with each stroke as if he knew how badly John wanted to hear   
it. "John, John, oh god, _John_…" he groaned in a blissful, post-coital   
voice, and John came with a choked off, desperate cry.

When John came back to   
himself, every molecule in his body was vibrating a nanosecond slower than the   
rest of the universe. His thoughts flowed like molasses through his brain, so   
that the time it took John to fall asleep was filled with only one long, drawn   
out thought. _So this is what love feels like._

~~~

It was late afternoon by   
the time John woke up, pulled from sleep by a dull, throbbing ache in his   
shoulder. The light was heavily slanted as it spilled through the window and   
warmed the room, glinting off the brass antique fixtures and creating strange   
reflected patterns on the wall. John felt like he was dying of thirst and he   
felt the slight hangover-like sensation that he figured must be the result of   
coming down off the morphine.

John's anxiety rose as he   
realized how long they'd lingered here. It was a miracle Kolya hadn't found them   
yet. Groaning at the way the ache in his shoulder intensified with movement,   
John rolled over to wake Rodney and get going, but all he found was his phone   
resting on Rodney's pillow. There was a yellow post-it note attached.

Panic coiled icily in his   
gut. He stared at the phone for at least a good ten seconds before he reached   
out and took it with a shaking hand. He read the note silently, and it did   
nothing to calm the rising panic. "Call me."

John didn't believe it.   
There was no way Rodney would have left, not after what he thought they'd shared   
last night, and not with Kolya still after him. He didn't stand a chance out   
there without John. He wouldn't just leave, unless…unless he thought he was   
protecting John.

John ripped the post-it   
away and he was halfway through dialing Rodney's number before he saw the back   
of the note: "No, really, call me _now_. I have a plan." _Now_ was   
underlined three times.

"Hello?" Rodney answered,   
sounding distracted.

_Oh, thank god, he's   
okay. _Relief flooded John's veins.   
"Rodney? Where are you?" John asked once he found his voice.

"John! Finally! I thought   
you'd never wake up. Hey, did you check the bedside table yet? I got you   
something to eat from the bakery around the corner." The words tumbled from   
Rodney's mouth in an excited rush, and John glanced at the table to find a giant   
cinnamon roll next to a giant bottle of water and a giant bottle of painkillers.   
John's face lit up with a giant grin to match.

"Rodney, if you were here   
right now I'd kiss you." John's joints protested as he reached for the bottle,   
dumping four into his palm and taking them all at once, guzzling the water down   
his parched throat.

"I take it you found the   
ibuprofen," Rodney hummed over the phone. "It's not exactly morphine, but it's   
the best I could do. I considered holding up the pharmacy for their entire   
supply of codeine, but I figured that would be more trouble than it's worth."

"It's the thought that   
counts," John said around a mouthful of sticky, sweet pastry. "Where are you?"   
John asked again, wanting to get to Rodney's side as fast as possible. Kolya was   
still looking for them, he was certain of it.

"I'm at Sam's lab," Rodney   
answered, and now that John listened he could hear the whir of machinery and   
Sam's voice in the background.

"Rodney, are you doing   
research? _Now?_ How can you be—"

"No, it's fine! I figured   
it out! Well, I didn't figure out the really important part, I'm still working   
on that. I'm almost finished, I just need to calculate the rate of spin on alpha   
particles and such, but anyway I was thinking about it last night and with the   
kind of power requirements we're talking about, he'd need a massive conduit to   
channel the amount of energy required and focus it into a singularity, so   
there's really only one place that could handle that kind of—"

"_Rodney!_" John said   
a little more sharply than was really necessary, but if he let Rodney go on this   
could take hours. "What are you talking about?"

"Kolya," Rodney said   
simply. "He's going to blow up the Eiffel

Tower."

John gaped in shocked   
silence for several seconds. When he was finally able to gather his thoughts,   
all he could think to say was, "Really?"

"Yes," Rodney answered.   
"Now, I think I know the kind of equipment he would have to use, and if I can   
get to it before it starts to build up a charge we should be fine. But if it's   
already charged, then, well…that's what I'm working on now. I think I can—"

"Rodney," John chided,   
"This is your plan? To find Kolya's machine and flip the off switch?"

"It's a bit more   
complicated than that," Rodney huffed. "But essentially, yes."

"That's a _horrible_

plan!" John shouted. "Rodney, you can't go anywhere near Kolya! His men will   
shoot you on sight!"

"Oh, I don't think so,"   
Rodney said, smile evident in his tone. "That's where you come in," he said   
cryptically. "Meet me on the north corner of the Champs de Mars in an hour. I   
should be done by then. Bring your bag," he added, then hung up with a click,   
leaving John worried and no closer to figuring out what was going on than when   
he'd first called.

~~~

The sun was beginning to   
sink low in the sky by the time Rodney reached the Champs de Mars. John was   
waiting for him, looking freshly showered and a little pissed off. "I still   
think this plan sucks," he said by way of greeting.

"Shut up, it's brilliant,"   
Rodney countered. "Now give me your bag."

"Why?"

"So we can put on   
disguises!" Rodney explained impatiently. Seriously, did Rodney have to spell   
out everything? "Oh, and we're going to need those little earpieces I saw when I   
was digging through there this morning."

He reached for John's bag,   
but John caught his wrist and said, "You went through my stuff?"

Rodney had been looking for   
his clothes and money for breakfast, but he didn't say that. Instead he rolled   
his eyes and retorted, "Oh, like you're one to talk."

John bunched his eyebrows   
in a frown, then used his hand on Rodney's wrist to start dragging him behind a   
clump of trees. "Okay, Rodney, you want to share, we'll share. But if you want   
my help you're going to have to come up with a better plan that doesn't put you   
in danger." Rodney opened his mouth to protest but John plowed right over him.   
"Even with a disguise, Kolya's men are going to notice if you start poking   
around looking for machinery. You're not exactly covert ops trained," he   
finished.

Rodney smiled, remembering   
the several hours he'd spent this morning digging into John's past. He was good,   
but he hadn't covered his tracks as well as he'd thought, and Rodney was better.   
"No, I'm not," Rodney agreed. "But you are."

~~~

Hidden behind a clump of   
trees, John let Rodney rummage though his bag, pulling out clothes and wigs and   
cases for colored contacts and several different pairs of glasses and about a   
half a dozen passports. "Seriously, tell me the truth. You're into role playing,   
aren't you?"

"Rodney," John sighed in   
exasperation. Rodney just ignored him and continued rifling through the various   
outfits.

"I don't suppose you have a   
fireman's uniform in here, do you? That would be so hot."

"Rodney!" John snapped   
warningly and reached out to snatch the bag from Rodney's grasp. Rodney's   
expression went from curiously hopeful to resigned frustration.

"Well, naturally I didn't   
mean _now_."

John groaned in the back of   
his throat. "I'll look for clothes, you just remember what I told you."

Rodney's face took on that   
pinched look that said he was really annoyed, not just simmering at his usual   
level of frustration. "I still don't see why I—"

"We are _not_ arguing   
about this anymore. If I give the signal, or if anything goes wrong, _anything   
at all_, then you _run._ You don't worry about me and you don't look   
back, you just go," John ordered, and handed Rodney a god-awful pineapple print   
shirt, a grey wig and a pair of giant, thick-framed sunglasses.

"Why do I have to be the   
old man?" Rodney squawked indignantly.

"Because I said so," John   
huffed, pulling on his own wavy, sandy-brown wig, smoothing the locks down   
around his ears. "And also because if you look like a sight-seer, you'll have an   
excuse to be watching me through the binoculars."

Rodney grumbled a little,   
but must have admitted to himself that John had a point because he began putting   
on the disguise. When he'd finished, he spread his arms wide and said, "How do I   
look?"

John peered at him through   
a stylish pair of wire-rimmed glasses, cocking his head to the side. The outfit   
didn't do much to disguise Rodney, but John doubted any other outfit would have   
done the job better. Rodney had a particular way of moving, a specific energy   
about him, that made him stand out in a crowd. A change of clothes could do   
nothing to hide that spirit. "You look good," John finally said with a smirk.   
"'Over the hill tourist' suits you."

Scowling, Rodney said   
vindictively, "Next time, you can be the old man."

John mock grimaced and   
began helping Rodney with his button mike, standing close and brushing his   
fingers over Rodney's neck as he fiddled with his collar. "I don't think that   
would do it for me," John said, then smiled and lowered his voice suggestively.   
"But we maybe could try the fireman thing," he said, then had to bite his lip to   
hold back the ridiculous grin when he saw Rodney's face light up anxiously.

Stepping back, John made   
sure his own mike was secure and then put in his earpiece. "Okay, let's make   
sure these work. Say something."

"That wig shouldn't make   
you look so hot," Rodney blurted, and John couldn't help but laugh.

~~~

Twenty minutes later, John   
wasn't feeling quite so boisterous. He'd been over every inch of the structure   
at ground level, and he hadn't turned up anything. Of course, it didn't help   
that he had no idea what he was looking for, relying solely on Rodney's vague   
description of "something that looks like it can carry a charge…or generate   
one…or maybe just looks suspicious….probably with blinking lights."

"I don't like this plan,"   
John grumbled into the mike after his fourth circuit of the structure. "Didn't I   
tell you how much I don't like this plan?"

"It has to be there!"   
Rodney insisted. "You're just not looking hard enough!"

"Rodney, I have been over   
every _inch_ of this place multiple times. It's not here!" John hissed   
quietly, but a few bystanders gave him odd looks. He was pretty sure he'd passed   
by them at least six times in his quest to investigate every single bolt in the   
tower. "I can't stay here much longer, Rodney. People are starting to give me   
funny looks. And if Kolya _is_ here, he's bound to notice me poking around,   
and then—"

"I know, I know," Rodney's   
sigh transmitted loudly through the earpiece. "Our plan is shot, the Eiffel

Tower blows up, and us with it.   
But you're supposed to be the master of disguise, can't you just blend in? Wolf   
in sheep's clothing, remember?"

John frowned. "Fine," he   
said, tone clipped, wondering if Rodney could see his eyes narrowing through the   
binoculars. He began another pass, trying to look nonchalant as he examined the   
same crossbeam for the fifth time. A nearby kid gave him a curious look, then   
started staring at the same point as John, trying to figure out what was so   
interesting about the girders.

Rodney's voice came through   
the radio. "No, no, you're not blending enough!"

"I'm blending fine! It's   
not here!" John hissed, and the kid gave him a funny look.

"Well you didn't expect to   
find it right away, did you? Kolya wouldn't hide it in plain sight. It wouldn't   
be so obvious that you could just—Oh, I think I found something!" Rodney   
exclaimed. "Go up to the second level! The observation deck, over by the   
stairs—"

"I thought you said it had   
to be at ground level?" John asked.

"Well, yes, that's the most   
obvious point of extrapolation. But if he plans to equally distribute the   
charge, there are points all over the structure where he'll need to propagate—"

"Okay, I get it," John said   
wearily. "Check the second floor."

John took the steps up to   
the next level, listening to Rodney ramble off directions in his ear. Rodney's   
voice was animated and loud through the earpiece, and John couldn't stop his   
grin when he imagined what Rodney must look like, standing by that clump of   
trees, staring through the binoculars, hands flying about wildly as he shouted   
at nothing. Inconspicuous, thy name is not Rodney McKay.

John let it all fade into   
pleasant background noise in his head, but kept his eyes open for anything   
suspicious.  He was brought up short at Rodney's abrupt, "STOP!" when he reached   
the second to last landing. "There, do you see it?"

"See what?" he responded,   
staring straight ahead at nothing but a flight of stairs.

"Halfway up the flight in   
front of you. Do you see that kind of blobby thing?"

John peered closer and was   
able to make out a foreign, obviously high-tech structure about the size of his   
fist attached under the middle step. "Damn, Rodney! How did you see that?"

"Better angle," he said.   
"And also I know what I'm looking for." John didn't think he was imagining the   
implied, 'So really, it should be _me _up there.'

"What's it look like?"   
Rodney continued.

John craned his neck to get   
a better look. "It's kind of triangular, but with curved sides. And it's got a   
blinking light in the center."

"I knew it! That bastard   
stole my design!"

"…Uh," John said.

"Alright, yes, technically   
you stole it, but I've decided to forgive you so it doesn't count," Rodney said,   
and John could actually hear the dismissive hand wave that went along with the   
words. It made John's chest a little lighter, but Rodney continued on,   
oblivious. "If it hasn't been charged yet it should have a green light lit. If   
it's building a charge, it should be orange."

John blinked. It was   
definitely an orange light. He remembered how Rodney had said it would be a lot   
harder to stop the build up of energy once it had started. "I think we've got a   
problem," he muttered quietly.

John heard the click of   
hammer being cocked and felt cold steel against back of his neck. "At last, we   
seem to agree on something," Kolya said.

~~~

"John?" Rodney called into   
the radio, but got no response. "John, what's going on? Are you okay?"

There was a brief rustle as   
if John was fumbling with his microphone, and then Rodney heard a voice that   
sent chills down his spine. "Dr. McKay," Kolya spoke into John's button mike.   
"If you care to join us, we'll be on the top floor. If not, I hope you and   
Sheppard have already made your goodbyes." The next thing he heard was a high   
pitched squeal and he ripped out his own earpiece. Kolya must have stomped on   
John's mike, crushing it.

Rodney knew what he was   
supposed to do. John had given him very specific instructions. He was supposed   
to drop everything and run, maybe call in an anonymous tip to the police that   
there was a bomb on the Eiffel   
Tower so they could get everyone   
to safety. Then he needed to hide, because Kolya wouldn't stop until he'd found   
Rodney and eliminated the threat he posed.

But Rodney didn't think   
about that. All he thought about were Kolya's words, echoing inside his head so   
loud that nothing else could fit. He wasn't a moron; he knew it was a trap_._   
But his heart hammered in his chest to match the beat of his thoughts. _Kolya   
has John. _Kolya _has _John.

Then Rodney did start to   
run, but not in the direction John had wanted. 

~~~

Kolya led him at gunpoint   
to the very top of the tower, right past the restaurant full of smiling tourists   
who seemed oblivious to the way Kolya had his injured arm in an iron grip. They   
took a service ladder to the roof, and John's gaze was instantly drawn to the   
giant spire reaching up to the sky. Surrounding it in a circle of blinking   
lights were several of the same devices from before, though John noticed the   
orange lights seemed angrier, blinking faster than they had been. Each of the   
devices was attached to a cable running to a laptop where Ladon sat, staring at   
the readout on the screen.

Kolya shoved John down into   
a kneeling position in the center of the ring, wrenching John's arm and making   
the pain in his shoulder flare. He bent down and pulled John's arms forward none   
too gently, one on each side of the spire, then bound his wrists with a length   
of cable. "You should consider yourself lucky, Sheppard," he said with a smile.

"You get a ring side seat for history in the making." John was too busy   
clenching his teeth against the pain of having his injury aggravated to answer,   
but apparently Kolya hadn't really expected to hear John's thoughts on the   
subject. He immediately stood and turned to Ladon, then called over the roaring   
wind, "How much longer?"

"About fifteen minutes,   
sir," Ladon answered.

Kolya nodded. "Good. Inform   
the others head for the rendezvous point. I'll be there shortly."

Ladon frowned. "Sir?"

"I'm expecting some   
company," Kolya said. Ladon nodded in understanding and moved past John to the   
access ladder.

For a long time, Kolya and   
John just stared at each other, the wind whipping around their bodies, stinging   
John's eyes and chilling his skin. Then Kolya leaned down and casually pulled   
off John's wig and glasses. He gave them an indifferent look before tossing them   
away. "Really, Sheppard, did you think you could hide behind your parlor   
tricks?"

"Rodney won't come," John   
spat back, voice a little shaky still from the pain. "With any luck, he's   
already on his way out of the country."

Kolya gave him a long,   
calculating look. "How certain are you of that? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you   
two seem to have become quite…close." He smiled knowingly, and it made something   
sick twist in John's gut.

If Rodney had half the   
intelligence John already knew he had, he would have had the good sense to run.   
John hoped he was long gone by now. The last thing John needed was another   
reason to feel guilty that he was once again responsible for putting Rodney in   
danger.

~~~

The four minutes it took to   
ride the elevator to the top of the tower were the longest four minutes of   
Rodney's life. He knew Kolya wouldn't have set up shop in the restaurant at the   
top of the tower. He needed a focal point, somewhere to direct the energy so he   
could concentrate it, then put a stopper on it and create a feedback loop that   
would charge the entire tower. Eventually, the energy content would be too much   
and the tower would overload, taking out a massive portion of the city with it.

And the best place to   
funnel that energy was the very top of the tower.

Rodney tried to keep   
himself from hyperventilating as he climbed the short access ladder. He had to   
wonder if now was really the best time for his mortal fear of heights to rear   
its ugly head. He couldn't help the brief glance straight down, and the   
resulting vertigo made the world spin and tilt. The wind blew with enough force   
to knock a man down, or at least make him think twice before attempting to face   
it with only his two shaky legs for support.

Rodney clutched the ladder   
like a lifeline until the horizon stilled, and once he'd somewhat calmed the   
frantic pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, he could make out voices over the   
howl of the wind. He peeked over the edge of the ladder to see John tied to the   
crowning spire of the tower, kneeling like a sacrifice at the altar. Kolya said   
something that Rodney couldn't hear, then turned and concentrated on the   
computer screen at the other end of the platform. Rodney noticed John's wrists   
were tied, not chained or cuffed. That at least made it easier for John to   
escape, if he just had a way to cut through the cables.

Rodney fingered the   
pocketknife he still carried after treating John's wound last night. It would do   
the job, but there was no way for Rodney to make it to John's position without   
being seen. Kolya was currently focused on the computer hooked up to the ring of   
devices around John, but did he really want to risk it?

There wasn't any other choice. This was _John_, and Rodney had come too far   
to turn back now.

~~~

Kolya looked at his watch,   
then frowned at John. "In a few more minutes, there will be no time to escape   
the blast wave," he explained, voice eerily calm and somehow sounding a little   
regretful. "I had hoped Dr. McKay would be here by now. It seems you were right,   
he's not coming for you after all." He looked at John with something almost like   
pity, the emotion foreign and twisted on his face. "For what it's worth, I'm   
sorry you have to spend your last moments with the knowledge that he left you to   
die. If it's any consolation, your death will be quick and painless," he said,   
then moved to concentrate on the computers once more.

But John didn't care about   
that. Sure, he was scared shitless that there was a timer on his life counting   
down in red, flickering numbers, but he was just happy Rodney was somewhere   
safe. That's why he was pretty sure he must be delirious when Rodney's worried   
face popped up in his peripheral vision.

The face came closer,   
becoming more and more real the longer John looked at it in the fading twilight,   
and suddenly John realized he wasn't seeing things, Rodney was actually _here._   
His heart leapt to his throat and then took a swan dive into his stomach. He was   
pretty sure that if Kolya didn't kill Rodney, John would. Rodney was supposed to   
be putting as much distance between himself and Kolya as possible, but instead   
here he was walking across the platform towards John, and any second now Kolya   
would look up and see him and then John's world would end.

"What are you doing here?"   
he hissed just under his breath when Rodney got close.

"You mean aside from saving   
your life?" Rodney asked, sounding a little put out. "I honestly have no idea,"   
he murmured, and John noticed how pale his face was, how wide his eyes were, and   
realized that Rodney was terrified. Rodney knew he'd walked into a trap, and   
that they had next to no chance of getting out of this intact.

Rodney raised his hands to   
John's wrists, but he only had a second to work at the knots before John saw   
Kolya move, pulling his gun and training it on Rodney in the time it took John   
to blink. "Dr. McKay," he greeted, sounding genuinely pleased. "I must admit,   
I'd begun to think you wouldn't show." Then, with a bit more of an edge to his   
voice, he said, "Please step away from Sheppard."

Rodney hesitantly complied,   
but not before John felt something metal pressed into his hands. He immediately   
recognized the outline of his pocketknife, and he palmed it out of Kolya's   
sight.

"I wish I had more time to   
congratulate you on your fine work doctor, but I'm afraid we're going to have to   
cut this a bit short if I want to make it to the rendezvous point in time." And   
now that he said it, John could feel the charge in the air and metal around   
them, making his skin tingle and his hair stand on end. "It's been a pleasure   
working with you," he said with finality.

"I assure you, the pleasure   
was all yours," Rodney said, voice betraying only the slightest waver.

Kolya offered a rueful   
smile, his finger tightening on the trigger, and John cut through the last cord   
just in time. He instantly stood and flung one end of the cord out like a lasso.   
It wrapped it around Kolya's wrist and John pulled, sending the shot wide. The   
two men struggled for the gun, pointing it in the air over their heads as John   
tried to use his body to shield his injured shoulder. "Rodney! Shut it down!" he   
shouted, but Rodney was already moving towards the computer.

Kolya kicked the back of   
John's knees and they both went sprawling to the ground. The gun skittered off   
the edge of the platform, but Kolya didn't move to follow it. He focused on   
John's shoulder instead, digging his thumb into the bullet hole through John's   
shirt. John screamed and writhed in agony beneath him, trying to wrench himself   
away from the pain.

He rolled blindly, taking   
Kolya with him. Striking at whatever part of Kolya he could reach, John didn't   
realize what direction they were heading until it was too late. For a split   
second, John was weightless as the ground disappeared out from underneath him,   
and then his hands shot out to grasp the ledge he and Kolya had just toppled   
over.

John hung there, suspended   
1000 feet in the air by nothing but his fingertips. His legs dangled beneath   
him, kicking wildly in an effort to find purchase. John barely had a second to   
recover before he felt a solid punch to his ribs and he nearly lost his grip.

Kolya hung beside him from   
one hand, and had apparently decided to use the other to continue their fight.   
Kolya swung out blindly, landing a lucky punch to John's injured shoulder. John   
screamed and felt his muscles lose control for one brief, excruciating moment of   
pain, and his fingers slipped from the edge. John held on with only one hand,   
his injured arm hanging loosely by his side.

"Rodney!" John bellowed   
desperately, and Kolya reached out to clamp one meaty hand on John's shoulder.   
John cried out, feeling the seeping warmth of fresh blood stain his shirt. John   
could feel the crackle of electricity in the air around them.

"One more second!" Rodney   
shouted. John weakly swatted away Kolya's hand and tried to grab the ledge with   
both hands, but Kolya just returned again full force. John's fingers were   
beginning to tire and cramp with the strain of supporting his body, and he could   
feel his grip slipping in increments. He was sure it was going to give out any   
second now, and he would go spinning down to his death.

Then Rodney's face appeared   
above him, and strong hands clasped his wrist, and Rodney shouted, "Hold on!" as   
if John hadn't been chanting that to himself for the last several seconds. A   
great whooshing sound filled the air and a pillar of water erupted from the   
middle of the platform, engulfing the lower half of the spire. It toppled   
sideways to crash down with a mighty metallic roar, disconnecting some of the   
cables between the devices and sending bright showers of sparks into the air.   
John heard distant screams below him as the spire continued its descent.

Blue light seemed to ripple   
and shimmer across Rodney's face, but John couldn't see its source. He did,   
however, feel a strange tug upward, like something was pulling him, but he knew   
it wasn't Rodney's hands trying to haul him up. It felt more like something was   
lifting him from the soles of his feet upwards. Rodney's eyes widened as the   
feeling intensified, and then he shouted, "Here we go. John, hold on tight!   
Don't let go!" 

Suddenly it felt less like   
something was lifting him and more like someone had a rope around John's waist   
and was pulling with all its might. Rodney's hands were tight on John's, and he   
realized Rodney was fighting against the force, like it was trying to pull him   
backwards. A quick glance sideways told John that Kolya felt the force too, and   
he was using it to his advantage, helping him climb back up over the ledge. John   
felt kind of embarrassed he hadn't thought of that first.

Rodney helped John up over   
the side, but John could tell he was struggling to maintain his own grip. The   
force was getting even stronger, and when John looked to find the source of it   
he saw a giant glowing pool of water in the middle of the platform, suspended   
inside the circle of devices John had been kneeling inside earlier.

The force was almost   
unbearable now. All John's strength was going into holding on to the ledge with   
exhausted muscles trembling with the strain. Rodney didn't seem to be faring   
much better, his face red and beaded with sweat as he struggled not to get   
sucked into the swirling vortex or whatever it was behind them. John only had a   
split second of warning, saw Rodney's fingers slip a tiny bit before they gave   
out altogether and he went skidding backwards across the platform towards the   
pool.

John's injured arm shot out   
on instinct and grabbed Rodney's hand. The pain was unbearable, like his arm was   
being torn from its socket, but John just gritted his teeth and held on. The   
only way Rodney was getting sucked into that thing was if it took John with him.

A startled yell from John's   
other side was the only warning they had. Kolya's grip went slack and he flew   
toward the pool. John caught his terrified expression before he got sucked into   
the pool with a wet slurping sound.

John's own grip began to   
weaken under the continued exertion. His arms were shaking and he felt his   
muscles burn. Rodney looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes, begging him to   
hold on just a little longer. John grunted and tightened his grip, and a few   
seconds later the vortex closed with a sound like all the air being sucked out   
of a room.

The force instantly   
vanished, and John felt his weight settle against the platform. He breathed   
harshly for a few seconds, too stunned and exhausted to move, but then he could   
barely stand it and he scrambled to gather Rodney in his arms. Relief hit him   
like a tidal wave as he held Rodney close, felt their pounding hearts beat   
against each other in an uneven rhythm. He'd nearly lost Rodney, he'd been so   
close, so he buried his face in Rodney's neck and breathed reassurance thick   
into his lungs.

When John felt stable   
enough to speak, all he could think to say was, "What the _fuck_ was that?"

Rodney chuckled against   
John's cheek, but he didn't seem any less rattled than John. "I did it. I   
managed to stabilize the energy fluctuations. That's what I spent all afternoon   
in the lab doing."

John stilled, then pulled   
back to look at Rodney's face in shock. "You mean you just…that was an actual   
wormhole? To another _galaxy?_"

Rodney nodded, face beaming   
in delight. "Pretty close to one, anyway. I didn't have time to balance all the   
equations, so that created a massive artificial gravity well to compensate. And   
the other end of the wormhole didn't have sufficient energy to stay open, so   
Kolya was most likely crushed to death inside the singularity."

John beamed right back at   
him. "I can't exactly say I'm sorry about that," he said. Rodney just kept   
smiling at him, face bright and flushed. Adrenaline and relief pumped thick   
through John's veins, and he couldn't have stopped himself from pulling Rodney   
into a happy kiss even if he'd tried. He pressed his lips to Rodney's over and   
over again, each breath between them like a giddy little reminder in John's   
head, _alive, okay, god yes, we're okay._ And when Rodney kissed him back,   
it felt like the beginning of something new and beautiful on the horizon.

~~~

By the time they had gotten   
back to ground level, John could hear police sirens quickly closing in.   
"Rodney," he said, cradling his injured arm to his chest, "I have to go. The   
Paris police and I don't really get along. If they catch me—"

"I know," Rodney said,   
sounding resigned. John's heart broke a little when he realized Rodney didn't   
think he was coming back.

John didn't have much time,   
but he couldn't leave like this. He cupped Rodney's face and pulled him close in   
a deep, soft kiss, trying to show Rodney as much of what he was feeling as he   
could in a few brief seconds. Reluctantly, he pulled away to look in Rodney's   
eyes. "I'll come back for you," he said, already backing towards the bridge.

"John—"

"I will," John said,   
leaving no room for argument. "I promise," he called, and then he ran for the   
bridge, heading into the sunset, leaving Rodney and the sirens in the distance.

~~~

Rodney felt his face redden   
as he yelled at the small, freckled girl the department had seen fit to make his   
TA. He let out a long, vindictive string of English mixed in with the few choice   
French words he had seen fit to learn. He only knew a little because he refused   
to bother learning any words that didn't help him intimidate and insult more   
effectively, and he wanted to make sure the idiots in the lab understood exactly   
how stupid they were and how miserable they made his life. He had only gotten   
through half of what he planned to say before the girl burst into tears and fled   
from the room, nearly knocking over Sam on her way out.

"Lost another one McKay?"   
Sam groaned resignedly as she stepped into Rodney's office.

Rodney sniffed defensively.   
"You're the one who keeps sending me grad students without enough common sense   
to fill a coffee cup. I think you're just jealous because they gave me your old   
lab."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, and   
gave me the newer, bigger one."

"Psh," Rodney waved away   
the comment. "You know I like smaller labs. Better acoustics. I can effectively   
yell at any lab tech from anywhere in the room."

"Yeah, well, just remember,   
I'm your department head now. I'm not going to let you push me around like you   
did with Elizabeth."

"Sure, whatever," Rodney   
said dismissively as he began gathering his things and shoving them into his   
briefcase. Office hours were the bane of his existence, but now the torture was   
over and he could head home. "We both know my wormhole research brings in the   
big grant dollars, but you do what you like."

Rodney didn't have to be   
looking at her to know that she was rolling her eyes and glaring. They left   
Rodney's office together, walking in comfortable silence even though Rodney   
could tell something was on her mind. Finally, she said, "Have you heard from   
John?"

Rodney didn't meet her eyes   
when he answered. "No."

"Rodney, it's been over two   
months," she said, and Rodney gritted his teeth against the sympathy in her   
tone. "If he was going to contact you, don't you think he would have by now?   
Maybe it's time to let him go."

Rodney shook his head. "He   
said he'd find me."

She gave him a long, hard   
look, but then the edges of her mouth seemed to turn up in a smile despite her   
better efforts. "I never would have pegged you for a hopeless romantic, McKay."

Rodney scowled. "Say   
something like that in front of the techs and I will make your life a living   
hell."

~~~

As soon as Rodney stepped   
into his apartment, Newton was clawing at his heels. Rodney shoved a treat in   
his face before he could do any serious bodily injury, and then he tossed his   
briefcase onto the couch. He stripped off his suit piece by piece, leaving a   
trail of clothes on the floor on the way to his bedroom. He paused at the giant   
window, watching the orange sun set behind the silhouette of the Eiffel

Tower. The view was the sole   
reason Rodney had chosen this place, but if anyone asked he always said it was   
because it was close to campus.

When the sky darkened and   
the tower lit up in gold, Rodney turned from the window. Rodney spent too much   
time standing there, gazing out at the tower and thinking about John. Maybe Sam   
was right. Maybe it was time to let go.

Rodney went about the rest   
of his daily routine. He fed Newton, reheated some take-out for himself, and   
watched a few hours of television before he went to bed. He fell asleep with the   
glow of the tower on his face, and dreamed of John. 

~~~

Rodney woke up reluctantly   
the next morning, unwillingly pulled from a pleasant dream about John. If he   
concentrated hard enough he could still smell John's cologne, feel John's warm   
breath on the back of his neck or the way John's arm tightened around his chest,   
burrowing closer in sleep.

Rodney slowly opened his   
eyes, but the feeling of John's body wrapped around his didn't fade. There could   
be only two explanations, and one of them was that Rodney had finally lost it.   
The other was almost too terrifyingly wonderful to consider. Slowly, and with   
careful regard for his sanity, Rodney moved one hand over the arm on his chest.   
His fingertips felt lean muscle and sinew under soft, hairy skin, then bony   
wrists, and when he threaded his fingers between John's he felt rough callouses   
scrape gently against the back of his knuckles. Warm, soft lips brushed against   
the nape of his neck. "Morning, sleepy head," John murmured, fitting his body   
closer against Rodney's back.

Rodney was pretty sure he   
was having a heart attack, or maybe an aneurism. Although he wasn't quite sure   
he should be feeling this happy if he was actually experiencing either of those.   
He turned in John's arms and met drowsy green eyes. He stared at John for a long   
moment, just looking at him, and trying to convince himself he wasn't still   
dreaming. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?" John   
smiled and looked back at him, faces so close on the pillow their noses were   
almost touching. "I came to see you, but when I got here you were already   
asleep. Then I remembered that we never really got a chance to wake up together,   
and I decided we needed to fix that."

"So you broke into my house   
and snuck into bed with me just because you wanted to wake up together?" Rodney   
blinked. "That's the most creepily romantic thing I've ever heard."

John frowned. "I'll choose   
to take that as the compliment I know you meant it as." He smirked a little,   
then made motions like he was going to get out of bed. "Though I suppose if I'm   
not welcome, I should just go and—"

"Don't you dare!" Rodney   
said, wrapping his legs around John's waist and rolling John above him, holding   
him there. "So help me, Sheppard, if you set one foot out of this bed I will   
kick your ass!"

John smiled down at him,   
then bent to press a soft kiss to Rodney's lips. "You'd never do that. You like   
my ass too much," he grinned and kissed him again.

"Hmm," Rodney hummed in   
agreement, then slid his hands down to cup John's ass through his boxers. "What   
little there is of it."

"Hey!" John protested, but   
Rodney just smiled and pulled him down for another kiss. Rodney threaded his   
hands through the hair at the back of John's head, feeling it slide between his   
fingers as John settled into the kiss. His mouth was just as amazing as Rodney   
remembered, and they spent a long time just tasting each other's lips before   
John pulled back, breathing a little heavily. "Rodney, I can't promise I'll stay   
long," he said, searching out the tender spot behind Rodney's ear. "If they find   
me here, I'll have to run."

"Wait, you mean you don't   
know?" Rodney asked.

John lips found their way   
to Rodney's throat. "Know what? 

"That they're not looking   
for you anymore," Rodney said, feeling John pull back and stare down at him with   
an unreadable expression. "Jack's got friends in…really scary places, actually,   
but he managed to pull all your arrest warrants. You're no longer wanted by   
Interpol. So you can stay." Rodney realized his fingertips were brushing over   
the scar on John's shoulder, so he forced his hands to still on John's skin.

John continued to stare at   
Rodney for a long time, until slowly, the corners of his mouth began to edge   
upwards in a hesitant smile. "You mean retire and live here in Paris with you?"

"Um, yes?" Rodney mumbled.   
"If you want."

John pretended to frown   
thoughtfully, but Rodney couldn't miss the way his eyes lit up. "I dunno,   
Rodney. You think you can handle that? There are all sorts of things that   
couples in Paris have to do." John gave into the smile threatening his features   
and bent down to meet Rodney in a slow, sensual kiss. "Candlelit dinners," he   
began the list, moving his lips along Rodney's jaw. "Midnight  
walks along the Seine," he added   
into Rodney's collarbone. "Making love by the light of the Eiffel

 

Tower," he finished, his voice a   
husky promise in Rodney's ear. Rodney swallowed a moan low in his throat as John   
pulled back and gave Rodney a cheesy, smug grin. "It all sounds kinda _  
romantic_," he said, scrunching his eyebrows at the word. "And we know how   
you feel about that."

Rodney scowled and pulled   
John's face down for another kiss. "I've decided that it's not an entirely   
unpleasant concept."

 

~La Fin~

 


End file.
